FRANCIS & CO.'S 

ABIIET LIBRARY 

OF 

CHOICE PROSE AND POETRY. 



rnOUGHTS ON THE POETS. 



THOUGHTS 



o N 



THE POETS: 



BY 



HENRY T. TUCKERMAN. 



'Poets and philosophers are the tsnacknowJedfed iegisJators of the world. 

Shellev 



THIRD EDITION, 



NEW-YORK: 

C. S. FRANCIS & CO., 252 BROADWAY, 
boston: 

J- H, FRANCIS, 128 WASHINGTON-STHEET . 

18 4 8. 



-9^\\ 



\ 



^v 



Entered, according to Act of Congress, iu the year 1846, 

BY C. S rRANCIS A CO. 

In the Clerk's Office of the District Court for the Southern District rl" New-York. 



Printed by 

MUNROE & FRANCIS, 

Boston. 



LC Control Number 




tmp96 031297 



CONTENTS 



Petrarch 
Goldsmith 
Gray 

CoLLIPfS 

Pope 

COWPER 

Thomson- 

Young 

Alfieri 

CUABBE 

Shelley 

Hunt ' 

Byron "^ 

Moore 

Rogers 

Burns 

Campbell 

Wordsworth , 

Coleridge * 

Keats 

Barry Cornwall 

Mrs. Hemans 

Ten"nyson . 

Miss Barrett 

Drake 

Bryakt 



7 

30 
51 

64 
73 
83 
94 
101 
111 
122 
137 
154 
165 
175 
183 
193 
205 
214 
226 
238 
251 
262 
273 
281 
290 
303 



PETRARCH 



The traveller between Rome and Florence, by the Per 
cigia road, usually makes a noon-halt at Arezzo ; and the 
ragged urchins of that decayed town, press eagerly around 
him and vociferously contend for the honour of being his 
guide to the house of Petrarch. In a few moments he 
stands before a homely, grey building, in a narrow and 
rude thoroughfare, upon the front of which is a marble 
tablet that proclaims it to be the humble dwelling where 
the poet was born, July 20th, 1304. An incident like 
this is apt to give an almost magical impulse to the wan- 
derer's thoughts. As he proceeds on his way through a 
lonely country, over which broods the mellow atmosphere 
of the South, he is long haunted by the tale of human 
love thus vividly recalled to his memory. He muses, 
perhaps, with delight and wonder, upon the celestial power 
of genius which can thus preserve for the reverence and 
sympathy of after generations, one among the countless 
experiences of the heart. Literature has performed no 
more holy or delightful tasks than those dedicated to Af- 
fection. The minds are few that can bring home to them- 
selves, with any cordial or benign effect, either the les- 
sons of history or the maxims of philosophical wisdom. 
Uncommon Jearness and strength of intellect are neces- 
sary in order to appropriate such teachings. But the 
heart, with it? ardent impulses and divine instincts — its 
pleadings for sympathy, its tender regrets, its insatiable 



8 THOUGHTS ON THE POETS. 

desires, its infinite capacity for devotedness and self-denial 
— the heart is the grand interpreter of its own rich memo- 
rials. This it is which renders Petrarch so near to us in 
feeling", although removed by centuries from this our ac- 
tual era. This it is which makes the transatlantic pilgrim 
gaze with emotion upon the spot of his nativity, and feel 
akin to him in being chartered with a similar, though 
perhaps undeveloped power and ** strong necessity of lov- 
ing." It is not like a dry antiquarian research to sum- 
mon his person and character before us. As a man of 
civic and social responsibilities, he belongs to the thir- 
teenth century ; as a lover, he is a citizen of all time and 
a brother of all living men who find their chief joy, trial 
and inspiration, in the exercise and interchange of senti- 
ment. 

*' They keep his dust in Arqua where he died ; 

The mountain-village where his latter days 

Went down the vale of years ; and 'tis their pride — 

An honest pride, and let it be their praise. 

To offer to the passing stranger's gaze 

His mansion and his sepulchre ; both plain 

And venerably simple, such as raise 

A feeling more accordant with his strain, 

Than if a pyramid formed his monumental fane." 

It is not our intention to discuss the literary merits of 
Petrarch, This has been done too well and too often al- 
ready. It is to the spirit which dictated and which has 
long been embalmed in his Sonnets, that we desired to 
call attention. Frequent doubts have, indeed, been cast 
upon the sincerity of these effusions. This, we imagine, 
results from the vain attempt to catch 'their legitimate 
meaning by a consecutive perusal. Devoted as they are 
to one subject, and cast in the same verbal form, a mono- 
tonous and artificial impression is the natural consequence 
of reading one after another, like the stanzas of a long 



PETRARCH. 9 

poem. To be enjoyed and appreciated, they should be 
separately considered. Each sonnet was the expression 
of a particular state of feeling ; and it was not until after 
the poet's death that they were collected. Written at 
various times and in different moods, but always to give 
utterance to some particular thought or fantasy having 
reference to his love, there is necessarily more or less 
sameness pervading the whole. It is undeniable that 
many of the conceits are frigid, and betray the ingenuity 
of fancy rather than the ardour of passion ; but these 
arose from the habit of " thinking too precisely" — a char- 
acteristic of all meditative beings, and which is so admi- 
rably illustrated in Hamlet's speculations. It should also 
be borne in mind that Petrarch's inducement thus elabo- 
rately to depict the varied effects of love upon his nature, 
was to give vent to emotions which were denied any other 
channel of escape : 

" La vire voci m' erano interditti, 

Ond' io gridai con carta e con inchiostro." * 

It is evident that he wrote chiefly from retrospection, 
and failed in the command of his mind, when under the 
immediate influence of deep tenderness or baffled desire : 

" Piu volte incomminciai di scriver versi, 
Ma la penna e la mano e' Tintelletto 
Rimaser vinti nel primier assalto." f 

This sufficiently proves the genuineness of his inspira 
tion. His allusions to the laurel- tree in reference to the 
name of his beloved, to the window at which he had seen 
her seated, to the waters beside which she had reposed, 
to the places in which he encountered her, and to her dress 

* The living voice was denied me, hence I sought utterance in 
writing. 

f Often I began to -write verses, but tlie pen, the hand and the 
mind were overcome at the first attempt. 



10 THOUGH T.S ON THE POETS. 

and the colour of her eyes and hair, her gait, her saluta- 
tions, her smile, and her glances, are but the native over- 
flowings of an ardent mind. It is the effect of ideality 
not only to exalt the actual into infinite possibility, but to 
reveal in detail every circumstance and association which 
Love has made sacred. Even those who can scarcely be 
deemed imaginative, are sensible of the magic agency of 
•sounds, perfumes and the most ordinary visible objects 
connected, in their memories, with persons or localities 
singularly endeared. It is only requisite to extend this 
familiar principle to understand why Petrarch dwells with 
such fondness on the most trivial associations. They 
helped him to recall the past, to bring more distinctly be- 
fore him the image of Laura, and to realize more com- 
pletely the delicious though tyrannical sway of Love. 
The same explanation may be given of his constant ap- 
peals to Nature. The heart is thrown upon itself in love 
as in grief. Few, if any, fellow-beings, however near 
and dear, are fitted to share the confidence of our inmost 
affections. They have a sacredness, a delicacy, an indi- 
viduality which ma*kes us shrink from exposing them 
even to friendly observation : 

" Not easily forgiven 
Are those, who, setting wide the doors that bar 
The secret bridal-chambers of the heart, 
Let in the day." 

The poet needed relief when denied sympathy, and 
therefore he apostrophised Nature, whose silent beauty 
wins but never betrays. It is worthy of remark that 
Petrarch was a skeptic in regard to love, as an enduring 
and deep principle of the human soul, until his own ex- 
perience converted him so effectually to the faith. 



e quel che in me non era, 



Mi pareva un miracolo in altrui.' 



PETRARCH, 11 

Many live and die knowing nothing of love except 
through their intellect. Their ideas on the subject are 
fanciful, because it has never been revealed by conscious- 
ness. Yet it were to question the benignity of God, to 
believe that an element of our being so operative and 
subtle, and one that abounds chiefly in the good and the 
gifted, is of light import or not susceptible of being ex- 
plained by reason, justified by conscience, and hallowed 
by religion, and thus made to bear a harvest not only of 
delight but of virtue. Love, Petrarch maintains, is the 
crowning grace of humanity, the holiest right of the soul, 
the golden link which binds us to duty and truth, the re- 
deeming principle that chiefly reconciles the heart to life, 
and is prophetic of eternal good. It is a blessing or a 
bane, a weakness or a strength, a fearful or a glorious 
experience, according to the soul in which it is engen- 
dered. Let us endeavour to define its action and vindi- 
cate its worth, as set forth in the Sonnets of Petrarch. 

All noble beings live in their affections. While this 
important fact has been ever illustrated by poets, it is 
seldom fully recognized in moral systems or popular the- 
ology. Yet, if we would truly discern the free, genuine 
elements of character, the history of the heart affords the 
only authentic ground of judgment. Love has been, and 
is, so mightily abused, that in the view of superficial 
reasoners it becomes identified rather with feebleness than 
strength. Yet, in point of fact, its highest significance 
can alone be realized by natures of singular depth and 
exaltation. To the unper verted soul, instead of a pas- 
time it is a discipline. Once elevated from a blind in- 
stinct to a conscious principle, it is the mighty tide which 
sways all that is solemn and eternal in life. To love, in 
one sense, is, indeed, little more than an animal necessity; 
but to love nobly, profoundly — to love, as Madame de 
Stael expresses it, *' at once with the mind and with the 



12 THOUGHTS ON THE POETS. 

heart," to dedicate to another mature sympathies, is the 
noblest function of a human being. The fever of passion, 
the ignoble motives, the casual impulses which belong to 
our nature, blend, it is true, with the exercise of all affec- 
tion, but love, in its deepest and genuine import, is the 
highest and most profound interest of existence. This 
is a truth but imperfectly understood ; but there are few 
spirits so utterly bereft of celestial affinities as not to re- 
spond more or less cordially, to every sincere appeal to a 
capacity so divine. All the folly of vain imaginations, 
all the coarseness of vulgar sensuality, all the scorn of 
mental hardihood, while they profane the name, can 
never violate the sacred realities of love. There have 
been, and there ever will be earnest and uncompromising 
hearts, who bravely vindicate a faith too native and actu- 
ating ever to be eradicated. Such natures can only rea- 
lize themselves through love, and in proportion to their 
integrity will be their consciousness of the glory of this 
attribute. They intuitively anticipate its pervading influ- 
ence upon their character and happiness. They feel 
that within it lies the vital points of their destiny, and 
through it their access to truth. The world may long 
present but glimpses of what they ever watch to descry. 
Life may seem barren of a good never absent from their 
inward sense. At times, from very weariness, they may 
be half inclined to believe that the love for which they 
pray, is but a poetic invention, having no actual type. 
Witnessing so much apparent renunciation, they may, at 
last, regard themselves as vain dreamers, and look back, 
with bitter regret upon years of self-delusion. But the 
great want, the haunting vision, the prophetic need, assert 
themselves still ; and when, through self-denial and fer- 
vent trust, the dawn glimmers upon their souls, the lonely 
vigil and restless fears of the night are forgotten in " a 
peace which the world can neither give nor take away." 



PETRARCH. 13 

To some minds it may appear sacrilegious thus to inden- 
tify love with religion, but the sentiments rightly under- 
stood, are too intimately allied to be easily divided. It is 
through the outward universe that natural theology points 
us to a Supreme Intelligence ; and it is through the 
creature that spirits of lofty mould most nearly approach 
the Creator. Coleridge describes love as the absorption 
of self in an idea dearer than self. This is doubtless the 
only process by which the problem of human life is solved 
to exalted natures. It is in vain that you bid them find 
content, either in the pleasures of sense or the abstractions 
of wisdom, however keen their perceptions, or ardent 
their passions. They know themselves born to find 
^completion through another. A subtle and pleading ex- 
pectancy foretells the advent of a Messiah. They seek 
not, but wait. It is no romantic vision, no extravagant 
desire, but a clear and deep conviction that speaks in their 
bosoms. This is the germ of the sweetest flower that 
shall adorn their being ; this is their innate pledge of 
immortality, and ceaselessly invokes them to self-respect 
and glory. 

There is something essentially shallow in the play of 
character, until deep feeling gives it shape and intensity. 
The ofiice of love is to induce a strong and permanent 
motive, and it is this process which concentrates all the 
faculties of the soul. Hence the satisfaction which follows ; 
— a condition wholly different from what was previously 
regarded as enjoyment. Through vanity and the senses, 
partial delight may have been obtained ; but it was a 
graft upon, rather than a product of the heart. The bles- 
sedness of true love springs from the soul itself, and is 
felt to be its legitimate and holiest fruit. Thus, and thus 
alone, is human nature richly developed, and the best in- 
terests of life wisely embraced. Shadows give way to 
substance, vague wishes to permanent aims, indifferent 



14 THOUGHTS ON THE POETS. 

moods to endearing associations, and vain desire to a 
" hope full of immortality." Man is for the first time 
revealed to himself, and absolutely known to another ; 
for entire sympathy, not friendly observation, is the key 
to our individual natures; and when this has fairly 
opened the sacred portal, we are alone no more forever ! 

Petrarch affords a good illustration of this subject, be- 
cause he has bequeathed a. record of his experience, 
which fame has rendered classical. In him, as in every 
one, the influence of the sentiment was modified by par- 
ticular traits of character. It is not requisite that we re- 
gard him as the most unexceptionable example of a lover, 
m order to avail ourselves of the autobiography of the 
heart which he left behind him. It is enough to acknowl- 
edge the fact that his career was mainly swayed by a 
feeling which, in most men, exerts but a temporary and 
casual agency ; and that the most genial outpourings of 
his soul have exclusive reference to its phases. It is not 
pretended that he is faultless; but the good taste of ages 
has hallowed his effusions, and, on this account, they 
furnish an authoritative exposition. In order to estimate 
aright these revelations, let us glance at their author as 
a man. 

He was, then, in relation to society, one of the most 
important personages of his time. With many his name 
is merely associated with the idle dreams of a minstrel, 
and his existence is recalled as that of an imaginative 
devotee, who lived chiefly to indulge his private tastes. 
That the case was far otherwise is indisputable. Few 
prominent men of that era so richly deserve the title of 
patriot. His love of country was ferv^ent and wise, and 
his efforts in her behalf unremitted. The frequent and 
momentous political embassies to which he was appointed, 
and the cheerful zeal with which they were fulfilled, is 
proof enough of his political talent and noble enterprise. 



PETRARCH. 15 

The high consideration he enjoyed, both with princes and 
people, his steady friendship with individuals of high 
rank and influence, the interest he manifested in Rienzi's 
unsuccessful efforts to restore Italy to freedom, his volu- 
minous correspondence on questions relating to the public 
weal, evince, among othei* facts, that he enacted no 
useless or ignoble part on the world's broad arena. Nor 
is this all. If Petrarch excelled the mass of every 
age in the refinement and earnestness of his affections, 
he was also far beyond his own in knowledge and 
liberality. We can trace in his writings the slumbering 
embers of the flame afterwards kindled by Luther, and 
the same devotion to liberty, which in the progress of 
time, found scope and realization on this continent. The 
great principles of free government and religious inquiry, 
that in our day have become actual experiments, are 
discoverable in the ardent speculations and elevated 
desires of the bard of Laura. He was the uncompro- 
mising advocate of civil and ecclesiastical reform, and 
threw all the weight of his literary reputation into the 
scale of progress. This end he promoted more signally 
by learned researches and the circulation of ancient 
manuscripts, so as to become identified with the revival 
of letters. These objects were methodically pursued 
throughout his life. They formed no small portion of 
that external activity, which is so often wasted upon 
selfish objects, and this is in itself sufficiently glorious to 
vindicate his life from the charge of inutility. 

In estimating his moral traits, it should be remem- 
bered that the sunshine of fame made him conspicuous, 
and subjected his behaviour to a keener scrutiny than is 
the lot of the obscure. We may safely deem the judg- 
ment of contemporaries critical and searching, especially 
as it is the usual fate of superior gifts to attract a large 
share of envy as well as admiration. The biographers 



16 THOUGHTS ON THE POETS. 

of Petrarch have gleaned but two authentic charges, 
which can, even in the view of more recent and enlight- 
ened moralists, sully the pervading brightness of his 
character. He was the father of two illegitimate 
children — for whose temporal and spiritual welfare he 
amply provided. Such a fact, in those times, was not 
only regarded as venial from the license of manners that 
prevailed, but considered especially excusable in church- 
men, on account of their obRgation to celibacy. All 
testimonies concur in representing his habitual course as 
remarkably exemplary, and the disgust and indignation 
he evidently feels at the dissolute manners of the papal 
court, as well as long years of pure and devoted love and 
studious retirement, assure us that Petrarch's soul was 
far above the baseness of habitual dissipation. He may 
have lapsed from strict virtue, but he never lost for her 
either his allegiance or sympathy. In an age famous for 
libertinism and courtly adulation, he preserved to an 
extraordinary degree, his self-respect and purity of heart. 
His native instincts rendered the pursuit of wisdom, 
communion with the great and good of past times, the 
society of the learned and gifted, and the study of nature 
infinitely more attractive than any less ennobling plea- 
sures. Compared with those around him, his example 
was worthy of all praise, and a sincere vein of conscien- 
tious sensibility and repentant musing, mingles with and 
lends pathos and dignity to his strains of love. The 
other charge which has been preferred against him is 
vanity. This, however, seems from his own confession 
and the opinion of others, to have been a youthful weak- 
ness, chiefly manifested by a fondness for dress, which 
disappeared as soon as his mind and heart became inter- 
ested. He is described as quite indifferent to wealth, and 
of a singularly reserved and meek demeanour. He was 
by nature and habit a severe student, and delighted to 



PETEARCH. 17 

meditate in the open air, and alternately lead the life of 
a recluse and a traveller, filling his mind with knowledge 
and reflection, and his heart with thoughts of love and 
piety. 

Such was the man who on the morning of Good Fri- 
day, at the church of Santa Clara, at Avignon, met 
Laura; their eyes encountered, and from that moment 
the destiny of his affections was sealed. The very idea 
suggested by this fact, — that of love at first sight, doubt- 
less appears to the majority of readers, particularly those 
of northern origin, a piece of absurd romance. Yet, let 
us endeavour to regard it calmly and thoughtfully, and 
discover if there be no actual foundation for such an 
experience. Truthful human beings, whom the world 
has not perverted, express in their looks and manners, 
their genuine souls. Where there is depth of feeling, 
and pride of character, this natural language is still more 
direct and impressive. Such individuals, indeed, habitu- 
ally conceal their moods and sentiments under a veil of 
passionless reserve, or animal gaiety; and when this is 
drawn aside, their tones and features only speak with 
more eloquent significance from the previous restraint. 
No medium is more true and earnest in thus conveying 
the heart's language than the eye. The cold and worldly 
may have deadened its beams by selfishness and cunning, 
and the sensualist can only summon thither an earthly 
and base fire ; but they of child-like frankness and 
undimmed enthusiasm, may utter by a glance more than 
words could unfold. It is then not a mere vagary of 
imagination, but a rational and perfectly credible thing, 
that the meeting of the eyes of two candid, noble beings, 
should reveal them essentially to each other ; and such, 
we doubt not, was the case with Petrarch and Laura. 
A very important principle is involved in such an 
incident. It proves that Love, in its highest sense, is 
2 



18 THOUGHTS ON THE POETS. 

properly Recognition. Any man of winning address and 
knowledge of the world, may, by appeals to the passions, 
the interests or the unappropriated tenderness of a guile- 
less, confiding woman, win her to himself. But let him 
not imagine that such an outrage to the majesty of Love, 
will secure to him its richest fruits. His pride may be 
gratified by the dependence of a fair and gentle being, 
and her endearments may afford a delightful solace in his 
listless hours. Over her person, her time, her actions, he 
may exercise a permanent control. If she be infirm of 
purpose, she may become a domestic slave, the crea- 
ture or, at least, the honoured pet of her liege lord. The 
mass of women may, and probably do not feel conscious 
that their dearest rights have been thus invaded ; and 
men, in general, doubtless think that their disinterested- 
ness is sufficiently indicated by providing all the external 
sources of comfort for the objects of their choice. There 
is but a limited degree of conscious wrong on either side. 
When no deep affections, no intense sympathies crave 
gratification, society gains much, and the individual 
loses nothing by conventional alliances. But in questions 
of this nature, it must be ever remembered, that there 
are here and there, scattered among the multitude of 
human beings, souls that do not slumber, hearts that 
have burst the chrysalis of vegetative life, and feel the 
tides of individual desires, hopes, and aspirations fear- 
fully sway their pulses. Sacred are the pure instincts, 
holy before God, if not before man, the spiritual necessi- 
ties of such as these. If self-knowledge has come too 
late, if their outward fate is sealed before their inward 
wants have been revealed to their own consciousness, 
then to religion and self-control must they look to enable 
them to fulfil the letter of the bond. Yet, in so doing, 
if they possess any true depth of character, they will 
never compromise their highest privilege ; they will 



PETRAECH. 19 

never profane the sentiment of love by hypocrisy ; they 
■will recognize and rejoice in their ideal when once 
encountered. In the solemn privacy of their bosoms, 
will be cherished the being to whom their hearts went 
instinctively forth. For the sake of this pure and deep 
sentiment, they will be faithful to outward duty, calm 
and trusting, and maintain self-respect and hope un- 
stained. Tennyson has drawn a portrait bitterly true to 
experience, of the influence of uncongenial bonds upon 
n large class of women, in " Locksley Hall." But all of 
the sex are not the mere passive victims of habit and 
circumstance. A few peerless exceptions really live, — 
women, who through remarkable spirituality of character, 
or firm will, united to fine moral perceptions, prove 
superior to outward fate, and never permit the temple of 
their hearts to be crossed, save by the one, who, from 
affinity of soul, is an authorized and welcome guest. 
There is a grandeur in such vindication of rights, too 
holy for human law to protect, but, at the same time, too 
ennobling and heavenly'- for virtue to abandon. — 

" Patience, quiet, toil, denial, — 
These though hard, are good for man ; 
And the martyred spirit's trial 
Gains it more than passion can." 

It is on these principles that we account for the con- 
duct of Laura — a subject of endless discussion among 
the critics of Petrarch. The idea, that his love was 
wholly unreciprocated, is contradicted by the very nature 
of things. The truth is, a degree of mutual sentiment 
is absolutely necessary to keep affection alive for a great 
length of time. It is true we hear of instances tha*^ 
seem, at a superficial view, to justify a different conclu- 
sion ; but, generally speaking, the martyrs to such vain 
devotion at last discover that their passion originated in 



20 THOUGHTS ON THE POETS. 

the imagination, not the heart. There are evidences 
enough in the Sonnets of Petrarch, that his love was re- 
turned ; and we can scarcely conceive that a feeling of 
this kind, toward such a man, if once excited should be 
lukewarm or ill-defined. He speaks of Laura's " amo- 
roso sguardo," (loving glance) and of her turning pale at 
hearing of his intended absence. The very complaints 
he breathes of her pride, coldness, and reserve, betray a 
consciousness, on her part, more gratifying as proofs of 
interest, from such a woman, than the sweetest blandish- 
ments of the less sustained and magnanimous of the sex. 
It is probable that the conscientious behaviour of her hus- 
band, gave Laura no just ground for breaking a contract 
into which she had voluntarily, though perhaps blindly, 
entered. Her children, too, had claims which were par- 
amount and sacred. Being, as her lover describes her, 
of a high nature, wdth a clear sense of right, and a rare 
degree of self-control, she regukted her conduct by the 
strictest law of propriety. She was too generous to fol- 
low out her inclinations, even if she felt them perfectly 
justifiable, at the expense of others. But while in out- 
ward act she was thus scrupulous, how easy it is for us 
to imagine the inner life of her heart ! There she was 
free. The world's cold maxims had no authority within 
her innocent bosom. She could brood with the tender- 
est devotion in her hours of solitude, over the gifts and 
graces of her lover. She could cherish every token of 
his regard. In society, in her walks, wherever they met, 
she was at liberty for the time, to realize in her soul, that 
he was her spirit's mate, the chosen, the beloved, the 
one in whose presence she alone found content ; whose 
love was the richest flower in her life's chaplet, and the 
dearest hope that reconciled her to death. In this and a 
world of similar emotions, there was no infidelity. From 
the hour she knew, by experience, the meaning of 



PETRARCH. 21 

Love, it is impossible, with a conscience so delicate 
she could have ever professed it for her husband. 
Her obligations to him were those of duty, and, as far 
as he deserved it, respect. Perhaps he never made a 
claim upon her sentiment ; perhaps he had not the soul 
to know its meaning. And here let us notice a beautiful 
trait of what many deem a weak passion, when it is 
awakened in superior natures. The very characteristics 
which induced Laura to preserve her decorum and to 
fulfil her duties — and which her lover often deemed cold 
and unkind — were those that won and kept his heart. 
Such a man would have wearied of a weak woman, liv- 
ing only in herself. His nature was too lofty to take 
advantage of feebleness. The same aspiring spirit that 
made him a patriot and a bard, exalted his character as a 
lover. -Even in his affections he reverenced the divine 
principles of truth and equality. His chosen was a 
woman who understood herself, who had an intelligent, 
not a slavish need of him ; who, in the frank nobleness 
of womanhood, was his genial friend, whose pure and 
strong heart spontaneously responded unto his. Some 
of his most common allusions to her personal traits, and 
points of character, enable us readily to infer the nature 
of the charm that won and kept the poet's heart. He 
says, " Twn era Vandar cosa mortale,^^ (her movements 
were not mortal.) How much this expresses to the mind 
of one aware of the moral significance of a woman's air 
and gait ! V angelica semhianza umile e plana ; (her 
angelic semblance meek and affable,) combined with It 
lampeggiar delV angelico riso, (the flash of her heavenly 
smile,) give the most vivid idea of that union of ardour of 
soul with lofty principle, which is the perfection of the 
sex. Such phrases as Vumilita superba, (proud humil- 
ity), il bel tacere, (beautiful silence), dolci sdegni (sweet 
disdain), in aspetto pensoso anima lieta^ (a glad soul 



22 THOUGHTS ON THE POETo. 

beneath a thoughtful aspect,) V atto che parla con silenzia, 
(the act which speaks silently,) in alto intelletto un puro 
cuore, (a pure heart blended with a high mind) — all con- 
vey the image of a woman endowed with fine perception, 
child-like tenderness, and moral courage — a union of 
qualities eminently fitted to create not merely love, but a 
love partaking of reverence, such a love as justifies itself, 
and cannot but produce, not only mutual delight, but 
mutual goodness. 

If Laura had been less of a character, she could not 
have so long and deeply interested Petrarch ; and if he 
had been equally self-sustained, she would have been 
more indulgent. The habits of the age, the presence of 
a licentious court, and the personal fame of her lover, 
threw more than ordinary impediments in the way of 
their intimate association, and rendered prudence singu- 
larly necessary. These causes sufficiently explain the 
behaviour of Laura, who, as one of her biographers re- 
marks " always seems to think that modesty and her 
own esteem are the most beautiful ornaments of a 
woman." It is evident that she preserved composure 
because his temperament w^as so excitable ; and through 
all the years of their attachment, it was her legitimate 
part continually to watch over the citadel of love, which 
his impatience would otherwise have betrayed. She 
was serene, modest, and self-possessed ; he, variable and 
impassioned. Hence they loved. Each supplied the 
deficient elements of character to the other ; and found 
a secret and intimate joy, of which the voluptuary or 
worldly-wise never dream, in thus realizing the purest 
depths and sweetest capacities of their natures. 

The ennobling influence of Petrarch's attachment is 
variously manifested. It raised him above the thraldom 
of sensuality, — 



PETRARCH. 23 

Da lei ti vien I'amoroso pensiero 

Che, mentre 1 segui al sommo Ben f invia, 

Poco prezzando quel ch' ogui uom desia* 

It confirmed his faith in immortality. After Laura's 
death, he assures us that he lived only to praise her. 
To this event he alludes with beautiful pathos : 
Quando mostrai di chiuder gli occhi, apersi.f 

Then the vanity of the world became a thing of 
solemn conviction, and he turned to God with a single- 
ness of faith never before experienced. It was his only 
comfort to imagine her in heaven; and his great hope 
there to be reunited. He lived upon the memory of her 
graces, and was encouraged by her angel visits. He 
speaks of her, even while living, as associated with the 
idea of death : 

Chiamando Morte e lei sola per nome.J 

This is true to the passion in its exalted form. There 
is no range infinite enough for deep sentiment but one 
which includes the perspective of a boundless future. 
Hence the melancholy of all great emotion. " Mio 
bene " (my good) is a simple but significant epithet 
which the poet habitually applies to the object of his 
affections ; and 

Pace ti'anquilla, senza alcum affano,§ 

is the state of feeling that he declares is induced merely 
by her glance. He blesses the day, the month, the 
year, the season, the moment, the country, and the very 
spot of their first meeting : 

* From thee comes the loving thought, following which, I ara 
led to the supreme good, little prizing that which all men de- 
sire. 

f When she seemed to close her eyes, they opened. 
X Calling thee and death by one name. 
§ Tranquil peace, without a single sigh. 



24 THOUGHTS ONTHE POETS. 

Benedetto sia '1 giorno e'l mese el'anno 
E la stagione e'l tempo e I'ora e 1' punto 
E '1 bel paese e'l loco ov' io fui giunto 
Da due begli occhi che legato m'hanno. 

He recognizes this o'ermastering sentiment as at once 
the highest blessing and the great discipHne of his life ; 
and speaks of Love as his adversary as well as his 
delight. 

Sempre convien che combattendo vivo.* 

He is painfully sensible of the chains he wears, but 
feels such captivity superior to freedom : 

II giogo 6 le catene e i ceppi 

Eran piu dolce che 'I'andar sciolto.f 

In a word, all that is permanently beautifuj. in the 
harvest of his existence, he ascribes to his love : 

Onde s' alcum bel frutto 
Nasce di me, da voi vien prima il seme, 
Io per me son quasi un terreno asciutto 
Culto da voi ; et '1 pregio e' vostro in tutto.^ 

Petrarch's constancy has been a subject of astonish- 
ment to those whose vivacity of feeling is infinitely 
greater than its depth. To such it is not love that the 
heart requires, so much as excitement. They have only 
a French perception of sentiment, and affair du cosur is 
the flippant term that best describes their idea of the part 
which the affections occupy in the scheme of happiness. 
A temporary indulgence of amatory feeling resorted to 
like equestrian exercises, or a cup of coffee, as an agree- 
able stimulant, an antidote for ennui, an available method 

* It is necessary that I always live fighting. 

t The yoke, the chains, and the bonds were more sweet than to 
go free. 

X Hence, if any beautiful fruit grows in me, from thee came its 
seed. Of myself, I am, as it were, a barren soil, cultivated by 
thee, and all the product is thine. 



PETRARCH. 25 

of producing a sensation, to stir the vapid atmosphere of 
routine — such is love to those who marvel at constancy. 
Let them not take the holy name on their lips, at least, 
not the honest English word, but make use of the Gallic 
synonyme — a term equally applicable to the experiences 
of the libertine and the fop. To a true human heart, 
there is no sadder necessity in life than that of incon- 
stancy ; for to such a one it can be occasioned but by one 
cause — the discovery of unworthiness. Has life a more 
bitter cup than this ? Time may dissipate one illusion 
after another, but yet the good and brave can look on 
calmly and hopefully, assured that 

" Better than the seen lies hid." 

But let distrust of the truth, the nobleness, the loyalty, 
the affection, the high and earnest qualities of a beloved 
being, once enter the soul, and a withering blight falls 
on its purest energies. Imagination may deceive, cir- 
cumstances overpower judgment, false blandishments 
captivate the senses, but the heart of the noble and 
ardent goes not permanently forth except to qualities 
kindred to itself. Around these, as embodied in an asso- 
ciated with a fair and attractive being, the sympathies 
entwine, and only the canker-worm of depravity can 
sever their tendrils. Repose is the natural state of the 
affections. Time deepens all true love. Its joys are 
richer as, day by day, mutual revelations open vistas of 
character before unkno\\m. The very good sought in 
affection is permanence — the essential idea is to secure 
one congenial object of enduring delight, to which in 
despondency the heart can revert for consolation, in 
pleasure, for sympathy. It is to have the blissful con- 
sciouness amid every day scenes of barren toil or heart- 
less mirth, that we are independent of the crowd, and 
" have bread to eat which they know not of" En- 
2* 



26 THOUGHTS ON THE POETS. 

forced constancy is indeed no virtue. When there is not 
a lasting basis for love, for truth's sake, let it die out. 
No hot-bed means can nourish the richest flower of 
earth ; better that it should perish than have no original 
vitality. Yet, the lover is untrue to his vocation, if, 
when his best feelings are elicited and reciprocated, 
when his yearning heart has found its twin, his weary 
head the bosom that is the pillow of its happy repose, 
his overflowing tenderness the being who drinks in new 
life and profound content from his nurture — if, when 
these high and exacting conditions are satisfied, he do 
not will with all the energy of his moral nature, to avoid 
every temptation, even to casual infidelity. To the high 
and warm soul, there is no bond on earth like that of 
sentiment. And why ? It is the free choice, the un- 
shackled desire, the spontaneous self-dedication. The 
absence of outward chains only makes the inward 
consecration more absolute, even as the dictate of honour 
is more imperative with a high-toned man than all the 
authority of law or custom. Indeed we suggest one 
undeniable fact to the scoffers at human nature — to those 
who believe not in its infinite capacities and divine in- 
stincts, and account for all its phenomena on material 
principles — and that is, that sentiment controls passion. 
When a human being of the strongest animal propensi- 
ties, loves, (that is, becomes intensely conscious of thor- 
ough sympathy with, and peculiar devotion for another,) 
the body itself acquires a sacredness. It is regarded as 
the shrine of a hallowing affection, which the touch of 
an alien would desecrate. It is sentiment only that 
raises human appetites above those of the brute ; and to 
the unperverted, the only real pleasures of sense are 
those in which the soul intimately blends. Yet, another 
rational inducement to constancy obtains. Hemmed in 
by external obligations from infancy, with social laws 



PETRARCH. 27 

forever checking our personal action, and forcing the 
stream of natural feeling into formal channels, it is a 
glory and a joy, peculiar and almost supernal, to have 
one altar reared by our own hands, one worship sacred 
to us alone, one secret fountain which our instinct has 
discovered in the wilderness of life, where we drink 
those sweet waters that alone can allay the thirst of the 
heart. Whoever sees any intrinsic difficulty in constant 
affection, or abandons any true sentiment, except from 
the unfitness of its object, is not only ignorant of love, 
but independent of it. The heart that has really felt 
privation alone will appreciate abundance ; and can no 
more fail to maintain and cherish the greatest blessing 
of existence, when once it is absolutely realized, than 
the stars can renounce their orbits. 

Petrarch was true to Love, and developed its elements 
more richly through solitude. It is evident that his 
various journeyings and political embassies, as well as 
'his literary and social activity, were occasioned by a 
sense of duty, and the healthful claims of his mental 
powers for scope and enterprise, rather than by ambition 
or any personal views. The reason devoted ness and 
consistency are so rare in the world, is that people usually 
choose to dissipate instead of concentrating their feelings. 
Amusement is the very food of being to the majority of 
those who are not compelled by necessity to daily toil. 
To triumph in the circles of fashion, skim good-naturedly 
along the surface of existence, think as little as possible, 
and avoid all self-communion and earnestness of aim, is 
the philosophy of life to the multitude. Some adopt 
this course because they actually do not feel the need of 
any thing deeper or more sincere ; their natures are 
essentially shallow and capricious, and their joys and 
sufferings alike superficial. But others, and alas, how 
many capable of better things ! are, as it were, driven 



28 THOUGHTS ON THE POETS. 

from their true position by circumstances. They feel 
themselves above the ephemeral pleasures of society, 
and in point of fact realize no satisfaction in the indul- 
gence of minor tastes and light emotions. They have 
profound sympathies and magnanimous hearts. Some- 
times the poet's word or the orator's appeal, a breeze of 
spring, an outbreak of genuine sentiment in another— 
some gleam or echo from a true soul — touches the latent 
chords in their bosoms. They become, for a moment, 
conscious of the real ends of their being. Artificial life 
seems mean and shadowy. They have glimpses of 
reality, and perhaps retire to their chambers to weep and 

pray. 

At such times comes the vision of Love. Then it is 
seen how blest and happy is the heart that is absorbed in 
a worthy object, and lives wholly in its affections. It is 
by communion with itself that love grows strong. The 
process of adaptation which is so familiar to women, grad- 
ually robs feeling of all depth and intensity. If very ele- 
vated in tone of mind, or very energetic in purpose, their 
freshness of heart may indeed survive long habits of this 
kind. We sometimes encounter, even in the circles of 
gay life, a woman who has been idolized for years as 
beautiful or accomplished, who has long borne the name 
both of wife and mother; but in her whole person, in 
the depths of her eyes, in the more earnest tones of her 
voice, we recognize a virgin soul. Such beings have 
been kept from perversion by strength of will, clear per- 
ception of right or rare purity of mind ; but one good has 
been denied them, one destiny they have as yet failed to 
achieve — their hearts are undeveloped. The legitimate 
object of their affections has not appeared. The richest 
phase of their existence has not dawned. They have 
known marriage, admiration, conquest — but not love. 
Thus we feel it to have been with Laura when she met 



PETRARCH. 29 

the poet. But few thus preserve their sympathies. It is 
characteristic of those who truly love, to seek in medita- 
tion nurture for their sentiment. Only by reflection can 
we realize any great emotion ; and it is by thought that 
feeling shapes itself into permanent and well defined 
vigour. The devotion of a man of meditative pursuits, 
other things being equal, is therefore infinitely more real 
and pervading than his whose heart is divided by schemes 
of fame or gain, and rendered frivolous by common-place 
associations. Accordingly Petrarch nourished his pas- 
sion by musing. As to all true lovers, other interests 
were wholly secondary and external to him, compared 
with the prevailing feeling of his heart. To enjoy, ay, 
and to suffer this — it was requisite to be alone, and the 
name of Vancluse is forever associated with vigils of the 
love, which found such enduring and graceful expression 
in his poetry. 



GOLDSMITH 



It is sometimes both pleasing and profitable to recur 
to those characters in literary history who are emphati- 
cally favourites, and to glance at the causes of their popu- 
larity. Such speculations frequently afford more impor- 
tant results than the mere gratification of curiosity. They 
often lead to a clearer perception of the true tests of genius, 
and indicate the principle and methods by which the com- 
mon mind may be most successfully addressed. The 
advantage of such retrospective inquiries is still greater 
at a period like the present, when there is such an ob- 
vious tendency to innovate upon some of the best-estab- 
lished theories of taste; when the passion for novelty 
seeks for such unlicensed indulgence, and invention seems 
to exhaust itself rather upon forms than ideas. In litera- 
ture, especially, we appear to be daily losing one of the 
most valuable elements — simplicity. The prevalent taste 
is no longer gratified with the natural. There is a 
growing appetite for what is startling and peculiar, seldom 
accompanied by any discriminating demand for the true 
and original ; and yet, experience has fully proved that 
these last are the only permanent elements of literature ; 
and no healthly mind, cognizant of its own history, is un- 
aware that the only intellectual aliment which never palls 
upon the taste, is that which is least indebted to extrane- 
ous accompaniments for its relish. 

It is ever refreshing to revert to first principles. The 



GOLDSMITH. 3l 

Study of the old masters may sometimes make the mod- 
ern artist despair of his own efforts ; but if he have the 
genius to discover, and follow out the great principle up- 
on which they wrought, he will not have contemplated 
their works in vain. He will have learned that devotion 
to Nature is the grand secret of progress in Art, and that 
the success of her votaries depends upon the singleness, 
constancy, and intelligence of their worship. If there is 
not enthusiasm enough to kindle this flame in its purity, 
nor energy sufficient to fulfil the sacrifice required at that 
high altar, let not the young aspirant enter the priesthood 
of art. When the immortal painter of the Transfigura- 
tion was asked to embody his ideal of perfect female love- 
liness, he replied — there would still be an infinite dis- 
tance between his work and the existent original. In 
this profound and vivid perception of the beautiful in 
nature, we perceive the origin of those lovely creations, 
which, for more than three hundred years, have delighted 
mankind. And it is equally true of the pen as the pen- 
cil, that what is drawn from life and the heart, alone bears 
the impress of immortality. Yet the practical faith of our 
day is diametrically opposed to this truth. The writers 
of our times are constantly making use of artificial engi- 
nery. They have, for the most part, abandoned the in- 
tegrity of purpose and earnest directness of earlier epochs. 
There is less faith, as we before said, in the natural; and 
when we turn from the midst of the forced and hot-bed 
products of the modern school, and ramble in the garden 
of old English literature, a cool and calm refreshment 
invigorates the spirit, like the first breath of mountain air 
to the weary wayfarer. 

There are few writers of the period more generally 
beloved than Dr. Goldsmith. Of his contemporaries, 
Burke excelled him in splendor of diction, and Johnson 
in depth of thought. The former continues to enjoy a 



32 THOUGHTS ON THE POExS. 

larger share of admiration, and the latter of respect, bu* 
the labours of their less pretending companion have se- 
cured him a far richer heritage of love. Of all posthu 
mous tributes to genius, this seems the most truly desira^ 
ble. It recognizes the man as well as the author. It is 
called forth by more interesting characteristics than tal- 
ent. It bespeaks a greater than ordinary association of 
the individual with his works, and looking beyond the 
mere embodiment of his intellect, it gives assurance of an 
attractiveness in his character which has made itself felt 
even through the artificial medium of writing. The au- 
thors are comparatively few, who have awakened this 
feeling of personal interest and affection. It is common, 
indeed, for any writer of genius to inspire emotions of 
gratitude in the breasts of those susceptible to the charm, 
but the instances are rare in which this sentiment is vivi- 
fied and elevated into positive affection. And few, I ap- 
prehend, among the wits and poets of old England, have 
more widely awakened it than Oliver Goldsmith. I have 
said this kind of literary fame was eminently desirable. 
There is, indeed, something inexpressibly touching in the 
thought of one of the gifted of our race, attaching to him- 
self countless hearts by the force of a charm woven in 
by-gone years, when environed by neglect and discour- 
agement. Though a late, it is a beautiful recompense, 
transcending mere critical approbation, or even the reve- 
rence men offer to the monuments of mind. We can 
conceive of no motive to effort which can be presented to 
a man of true feeling, like the hope of winning the love 
of his kind by the faithful exhibition of himself. It is a 
nobler purpose than that entertained by heartless ambi- 
tion. The appeal is not merely to the judgment and im- 
agination, it is to the universal heart of mankind. Such 
fame is emphatically rich. It gains its possessor warm 
friends instead of mere admirers. To establish such an 



GOLDSMITH. 33 

inheritance in the breast of humanity, were indeed wor- 
thy of sacrifice and toil. It is an offering not only to in- 
tellectual but to moral graces, and its possession argues 
for the sons of fame holier qualities than genius itself. 
It eloquently indicates that its subject is not only capable 
of interesting the general mind by the power of his crea- 
tions, but of captivating the feelings by the earnest beauty 
of his nature. Of all oblations, therefore, we deem it the 
most valuable. It is this sentiment with which the lov- 
ers of painting regard the truest interpreters of ihe art. 
They wonder at Michael Angelo but love Eaphael, and 
gaze upon the pensively beautiful delineation he has left 
us of himself, with the regretful tenderness with which 
we look upon the portrait of a departed friend. The dev- 
otees of music, too, dwell with glad astonishment upon 
the celebrated operas of Rosini and some of the German 
composers, but the memory of Bellini is absolutely loved. 
It is well remarked by one of Goldsmith's biographers, 
that the very fact of his being spoken of always with the 
epithet " poor " attached to his name, is sufficient evi- 
dence of the kind of fame he enjoys. Whence, then, the 
peculiar attraction of his writings, and wherein consists 
the spell which has so long rendered his works the fa- 
vourites of so many and such a variety of readers ? 

The primary and all-pervading charm of Goldsmith is 
his truth. It is interesting to trace this delightful char- 
acteristic, as. it exhibits itself not less in his life than in 
his writings. We see it displayed in the remarkable 
frankness which distinguished his intercourse with 
others, and in that winning simplicity which so fre- 
quently excited the contemptuous laugh of the worldly- 
wise, but failed not to draw towards him the more valua- 
ble sympathies of less perverted natures. All who have 
sketched his biography unite in declaring, that he could 
not dissemble ; and we have a good illustration of his 



34 THOUGHTS ON THE POETS. 

want of tact in concealing a defect, in the story which is 
related of him at the time of his unsuccessful attempt at 
medical practice in Edinburgh — when, his only velvet 
coat being deformed by a huge patch on the right breast, 
he was accustomed, while in the drawing-room, to cover 
it in the most awkward manner with his hat. It was his 
natural truthfulness which led him to so candid and 
habitual a confession of his faults. Johnson ridiculed 
him for so freely describing the state of his feelings dur- 
ing the representation of his first play ; and, throughout 
his life, the perfect honesty of his spirit made him the 
subject of innumerable practical jokes. Credulity is 
perhaps a weakness almost inseparable from eminently 
truthful characters. Yet, if such is the case, it does not 
in the least diminish our faith in the superiority and 
value of such characters. Waiving all moral considera- 
tions, we believe it can be demonstrated that truth is one 
of the most essential elements of real greatness, and 
surest means of eminent success. Management, chica- 
nery and cunning, may advance men in the career of the 
world ; it may forward the views of the politician, and 
clear the way of the diplomatist. But when humanity 
is to be addressed in the universal language of genius ; 
when, through the medium of literature or art, man 
essays to reach the heart of his kind, the moYe sincere 
the appeal, the surer its effect ; the more direct the call, 
the deeper the response. In a word, the more largely 
truth enters into a work, the more certain the fame of its 
author. But a few months since, I saw the Parisian 
^populace crowding around the church where the remains 
of Talleyrand lay in state, but the fever of curiosity alone 
gleamed from their eyes, undimmed by tears. When 
Goldsmith died, Reynolds, then in the full tide of suc- 
cess, threw his pencil aside in sorrow, and Burke turned 
from the fast-brightening vision of renown, to weep. 



GOLDSMITH. 35 

Truth is an endearing quality. None are so beloved 
as the ingenuous. We feel in approaching them that the 
look of welcome is unaffected — that the friendly grasp is 
from the heart, and we regret their departure as an actual 
loss. And not less winningly shines this high and sacred 
principle through the labours of genius. It immortalizes 
history — it is the true origin of eloquence, and consti- 
tutes the living charm of poetry. When Goldsmith 
penned the lines — 

*' To me more dear, congenial to my heart, 
One native charm than all the gloss of art," 

he furnished the key to his peculiar genius, and recorded 
the secret which has embalmed his. memory. It was 
the clearness of his own soul which reflected so truly the 
imagery of life. He did but transcribe the unadorned 
convictions that glowed in his mind, and faithfully traced ■ 
the pictures w'hich nature threw upon the mirror of his 
fancy. Hence the unrivalled excellence of Eis descrip- 
tions. Rural life has never found a sweeter eulogist. 
To countless memories have his village landscapes risen 
pleasantly, when the " murmur" rose at eventide. 
Where do we not meet with a kind-hearted philosopher 
delighting in some speculative hobby, equally dear as 
the good Vicar's theory of Monogamy ? The vigils of 
many an ardent student have been beguiled by his por- 
traiture of a country clergyman — brightening the dim 
vista of futurity as his owm ideal of destiny ; and who 
has not, at times, caught the very solace of retirement 
from his sweet apostrophe ? 

The genius of Goldsmith was chiefly fertilized by ob- 
servation. He was not one of those who regard books 
as the only, or even the principal sources of knowledge. 
He recognised and delighted to study the unwritten lore 
so richly spread over the volume of nature, and shad- 



3b THOUGHTS ON THE POETS. 

owed forth so variously from the scenes of every-day life 
and the teachings of individual experience. There is a 
class of minds, second to none in native acuteness and 
reflective power, so constituted as to flourish almost ex- 
clusively by observation. Too impatient of restraint to 
endure the long vigils of the scholar, they are yet keenly 
alive to every idea and truth which is evolved from life. 
Without a tithe of that spirit of application that binds the 
German student for years to his familiar tomes, they 
suffer not a single impression which events or character 
leave upon their memories to pass unappreciated. Un- 
learned, in a great measure, in the history of the past, 
the present is not allowed to pass without eliciting their 
intelligent comment. Unskilled in the technicalities of 
learning, they contrive to appropriate, with surprising 
facility, the wisdom born of the passing moment. No 
striking trait of character — no remarkable effect in na- 
ture — none of the phenomena of social existence, escape 
them. Like Hogarth, they are constantly enriching 
themselves with sketches from life ; and, as he drew 
street-wonders upon his thumb-nail, they note and 
remember, and afterwards elaborate and digest whatever 
of interest experience affords. Goldsmith was a true 
specimen of this class. He vindicated, indeed, his claim 
to the title of scholar, by research and study; but the 
field most congenial to his taste, was the broad universe 
of nature and man. It was his love of observation 
which gave zest to the roving life he began so early to 
indulge. His boyhood was passed in a constant succes- 
sion of friendly visits. He was ever migrating from the 
house of one kinsman or friend to that of another ; and 
on these occasions, as well as when at home, he was 
silently but faithfully observing. The result is easily 
traced in his writings. Few authors, indeed, are so 
highly indebted to personal observation for their mate- 



GOLDSMITH. 37 

rials. It is well known that the original of the Vicar oJ 
Wakefield was his own father. Therein has he en* 
bodied in a charming manner his early recollections ot 
his parent, and the picture is rendered still more com 
plete in his papers on the " Man in Black." The irv 
imitable description, too, of the " Village Schoolmaster 
is drawn from the poet's early teacher; and the veteran, 
who " shouldered his crutch and told how fields were 
won," had often shared the hospitality of his father s 
roof. The leading incident in " She Stoops to Con- 
quer," was his own adventure ; and there is little ques- 
tion, that, in the quaint tastes of Mr. Burchell, he aimed 
to exhibit many of his own peculiar traits. But it is not 
alone in the leading characters of his novel, plays and 
poems, that we discover Goldsmith's observing power. 
It is equally discernible throughout his essays and desul- 
tory papers. Most of his illustrations are borrowed 
from personal experience, and his opinions are generally 
founded upon experiment. His talent for iresh and vivid 
delineation, is ever most prominently displayed when he 
is describing what he actually witnessed, or drawirio 
from the rich fund of his early impressions or subsequent 
adventures. No appeal to humour, curiosity, or imagj 
nation, was unheeded; and it is the blended pictures }-p 
contrived to combine from these cherished associations 
that impart so lively an interest to his pages. One mo- 
ment we find him noting, with philosophic sympathy, tl e 
pastimes of a foreign peasantry, and, another, studyii.i? 
the operations of a spider at his garret window, — now 
busy in nomenclating the peculiarities of the Dutch, and 
anon alluding to the exhibition of Cherokee Indians. 
The natural effect of this thirst for experimental knowl- 
edge, was to beget a love for foreign travel. Accord 
ingly, we find that Goldsmith, after exhausting the nar- 
row circle which his limited means could compass at 
3 



38 THOUGHTS ON THE POETS. 

home, projected a continental tour, and long cherished 
the hope of visiting the East. Indeed, we could scarcely 
have a stronger proof of his enthusiasm, than the long 
journey he undertook and actually accomplished on foot. 
The remembrance of his romantic wanderings over Hol- 
land, France, Germany, and Italy, imparts a singular 
interest to his writings. It was indeed worthy of a true 
poet that, enamoured of nature and delighting in the ob- 
servation of his species, he should thus manfully go 
forth, with no companion but his flute, and wander over 
these fair lands hallowed by past associations and exist- 
ent beauty. A rich and happy era, despite its moments 
of discomfort, to such a spirit, was that year of solitary 
pilgrimage. Happy and proud must have been the ima- 
ginative pedestrian, as he reposed his weary frame in the 
peasant's cottage "beside the murmuring Loire;" and 
happier still when he stood amid the green valleys of 
Switzerland, and looked around upon her snow-capt 
hills, hailed the old towers of Verona, or entered the 
gate of Florence — the long-anticipated goals to which 
his weary footsteps had so patiently tended. If any 
thing could enhance the pleasure of musing amid these 
scenes of poetic interest, it must have been the conscious- 
ness of having reached them by so gradual and self- 
denying a progress. There is, in truth, no more charac- 
teristic portion of Goldsmith's biography, than that which 
records this remarkable tour ; and there are few more 
striking instances of the available worth of talent. Un- 
like the bards of old, he won not his way to shelter and 
hospitality by appealing to national feeling ; for the lands 
through which he roamed were not his own, and the lay 
of the last minstrel had long since died away in oblivion. 
But he gained the ready kindness of the peasantry by 
playing the flute, as they danced in the intervals of toil ; 
and won the favour of the learned by successful disputa- 



GOLDSMITH. 39 

tion at the convents and universities — a method of re- 
warding talent which was extensively practised in 
Europe at that period. Thus, solely befriended by his 
wits, the roving poet rambled over the continent, and, 
notwithstanding the vicissitudes incident to so precarious 
a mode of seeing the world, to a mind like his, there was 
ample compensation in the superior opportunities for ob- 
servation thus afforded. He mingled frankly with the 
people, and saw things as they were. The scenery 
which environed him flitted not before his senses, like 
the shifting scenes of a panorama, but became familiar to 
his eye under the changing aspects of time and season. 
Manners and customs he quietly studied, with the ad- 
vantage of sufficient opportunity to institute just compar- 
isons and draw fair inferences. In short. Goldsmith was 
no tyro in the philosophy of travel ; and, although the 
course he pursued was dictated by necessity, its superior 
results are abundantly evidenced throughout his works. 
We have, indeed, no formal narrative of his journeyings ; 
but what is better, there is scarcely a page thrown off*, to 
supply the pressing wants of the moment, which is not 
enriched by some pleasing reminiscence or sensible 
thought, garnered from the recollection and scenes of 
that long pilgrimage. Nor did he fail to embody the 
prominent impressions of so interesting an epoch of his 
chequered life, in a more enduring and beautiful form. 
The poem of " The Traveller," originally sketched in 
Switzerland, was subsequently revised and extended. It 
was the foundation of Goldsmith's poetical fame. The 
subject evinces the taste of the author. The unpretend- 
ing vein of enthusiasm which runs through it, is only 
equalled by the force and simplicity of the style. The 
rapid sketches of the several countries it presents, are 
vigorous and pleasing ; and the reflections interspersed, 
abound with that truly humane spirit, and that deep sym- 



40 THOUGHTS ON THE POETS. 

rathy with the good, the beautiful, and the true, which 
distinguishes the poet. This production may be regard- 
ed as the author's first deliberate attempt in the career of 
genius. It went through nine editions during his life, 
and its success contributed, in a great measure, to en- 
courage and sustain him in future and less genial efforts. 
The faults which are said to have deformed the char- 
acter of Goldsmith, belong essentially to the class of 
foibles rather than absolute and positive errors. Recent 
biographers agree in the opinion, that his alleged devo- 
tion to play has either been grossly exaggerated, or was 
but a temporary mania ; and we should infer from his 
own allusion to the subject, that he had, with the flexi- 
bility of disposition that belonged to him, yielded only so 
far to its seductions as to learn from experience the 
supreme folly of the practice. It is at all events certain, 
that his means were too restricted, and his time, while in 
London, too much occupied, to allow of his enacting the 
part of a regular and professed gamester ; and during 
the latter and most busy years of his life, we have the 
testimony of the members of the celebrated club to 
which he was attached, to the temperance and industry 
of his habits. Another, and in the eyes of the world, 
perhaps, greater weakness recorded of him, was a mawk- 
ish vanity, sometimes accompanied by jealousy of more 
successful competitors for the honours of literature. Some 
anecdotes, illustrative of this unamiable trait, are pre- 
served, which would amuse us, were they associated 
with less noble endowments or a more uninteresting 
character. As it is, however, not a few of them chal- 
lenge credulity, from their utter want of harmony with 
certain dispositions which he is universally allowed to 
have possessed. But it is one of the greatest and most 
common errors in judging of character, to take an isola- 
ted and partial, instead of a broad and comprehensive 



GOLDSMITH. 41 

view of the various qualities which go to form the man, 
and the peculiar circumstances that have influenced their 
development. Upon a candid retrospect of Goldsmith's 
life, it appears to us that the display of vanity, which in 
the view of many are so demeaning, may be easily and 
satisfactorily explained. Few men possess talent of any 
kind unconsciously. It seems designed by the Creator, 
that the very sense of capacity should urge genius to fulfil 
its mission, and support its early and lonely efforts by the 
earnest conviction of ultimate success. To beings thus 
endowed, the neglect and contumely of the world — the 
want of sympathy — the feeling of misappreciation, is 
often a keen sorrow felt precisely in proportion to the 
susceptibility of the individual, and expressed according 
as he is ingenuous and frank. 

In the case of Goldsmith, his long and solitary strug- 
gle with poverty — his years of obscure toil — his ill-suc- 
cess in every scheme for support, coupled as they were 
with an intuitive and deep consciousness of mental 
power and poetic gifts, were calculated to render him 
painfully alive to the superior consideration bestowed 
upon less deserving but more presumptuous men, and 
the unmerited and unjust disregard to his own claims. 
Weak it undoubtedly was, for him to give vent so child- 
ishly to such feelings, but this sprung from the spontane- 
ous honesty of his nature. He felt as thousands have 
felt under similar circumstances, but, unlike the most of 
men, *' he knew not the art of concealment." Indeed, 
this free-spoken, and candid disposition was inimical to 
his success in more than one respect. He was ever a 
careless talker, unable to play the great man, and in- 
stinctively preferring the spontaneous to the formal, and 
♦' thinking aloud" to studied and circumspect speech. 
The " exquisite sensibility to contempt," too, which he 
confesses belonged to him, frequently induced an appear- 
3=^ 



42 THOUGHTS ON THE POETS. 

ance of conceit, when no undue share existed. The 
truth is, the legitimate pride of talent, for want of free 
and natural scope, often exhibited itself in Goldsmith 
greatly to his disadvantage. The fault was rather in his 
destiny than himself. He ran away from college with 
the design of embarking for America, because he was 
reproved by an unfeeling tutor before a convivial party 
of his friends; and descended to a personal rencontre 
with a printer, who impudently delivered Dodsley's refu- 
sal that he should undertake an improved edition of Pope. 
He concealed his name when necessity obliged him to 
apply for the office of Usher ; and received visits and 
letters at a fashionable coffee-house, rather than expose 
the poorness of his lodgings. He joined the crowd to 
hear his own ballads sung when a student ; and openly 
expressed his wonder at the stupidity of people, in pre- 
ferring the tricks of a mountebank to the society of a man 
like himself. While we smile at, we cannot wholly 
deride such foibles, and are constrained to say of Gold- 
smith as he said of the Village Pastor — 

" And e'en his failings leaned to rirtue's side," 

It is not easy to say, whether the improvidence of our 
poet arose more from that recklessness of the future, 
characteristic of the Irish temperament, or the singular 
confidence in destiny which is so common a trait in men 
of ideal tendencies. It would naturally be supposed, 
that the stern lesson of severe experience would have 
eventually corrected this want of foresight. It was but 
the thoughtlessness of youth w^hich lured him to forget 
amid the convivialities of a party, the vessel on board 
which he had taken passage and embarked his effects, on 
his first experiment in travelling ; but later in life, we 
find him wandering out on the first evening of his arrival 
in Edinburgh, without noting the street or number of his 



GOLDSMITH. 4*^ 

lodgings ; inviting a party of strangers in a public gar- 
den to take tea with him, without a sixpence in his pocket , 
and obstinately persisting, during his last illness, in 
taking a favourite medicine, notwithstanding it aggravated 
his disease. A life of greater vicissitude it would be 
difficult to find in the annals of literature. Butler and 
Otway were, indeed, victims of indigence, and often 
perhaps, found themselves, like our bard, *' in a garrnl 
writing for bread, and expecting every moment to be 
dunned for a milk-score," but the biography of Gold- 
smith displays a greater variety of shifts resorted to for 
subsistence. He was successively an itinerant musician, 
a half-starved usher, a chemist's apprentice, private tutor, 
law-student, practising physician, eager disputant, hack- 
writer, and even, for a week or two, one of a company 
of strolling players. In the History of George Prim- 
rose, he is supposed to have described much of his per- 
sonal experience prior to the period when he became a 
professed litterateur. We cannot but respect the inde- 
pendent spirit he maintained through all these struggles 
with adverse fortune. Notwithstanding his poverty, the 
attempt to chain his talents to the service of a political 
faction by mercenary motives was indignantly spurned, 
and when his good genius proved triumphant, he 
preferred to inscribe its first acknowledged offspring to his 
brothel, than, according to the servile habits of the day, 
dedicate it to any aristocratic patron, " that thrift might 
follow fawning." With all his incapacity for assuming 
dignity. Goldsmith never seems to have forgotten the 
self-respect becoming one of nature's nobility. 

The high degree of excellence attained by Goldsmith 
in such various and distinct species of literary effort, is 
worthy of remark. As an essayist he has contributed 
some of the most pure and graceful specimens of Eng- 
lish prose discoverable in the whole range of literature 



44 THOUGHTS ON THE POETS. 

His best comedy continues to maintain much of its ori- 
g-inal popularity, notwithstanding the revolutions which 
public taste has undergone since it was first produced ; 
and " The Hermit " is still an acknowledged model in 
ballad'Writing. If from his more finished works, we 
turn to those which were thrown oflf under the pressing 
exigencies of his life, it is astonishing what a contrast of 
subjects employed his pen. During his college days, he 
was constantly writing ballads on popular events, which 
he di3posed of at five shillings each, and subsequently, 
after his literary career had fairly commenced, we find him 
sedulously occupied in preparing prefaces, historical com- 
pilations, translations, and reviews for the booksellers ; 
one day throwing off a pamphlet on the Cock-Lane Ghost, 
and the next inditing Biographical Sketches of Beau 
Nash ; at one moment, busy upon a festive song, and at 
another deep in composing the words for an Oratorio. It 
is curious, with the intense sentiment and finished pictures 
of fashionable life with which the fictions of our day 
abound, fresh in the memory, to open the Vicar of Wake- 
field. We seem to be reading the memoirs of an earlier 
era, instead of a different sphere of life. There are no 
wild and improbable incidents, no startling views, and 
with the exception of Burchell's incognito, no attempt to 
excite interest through the attraction of mystery. And 
yet, few novels have enjoyed such extensive and perma- 
nent favour. It is yet the standard work for introducing 
students on the continent to a knowledge of our language, 
and although popular taste at present demands quite a 
different style of entertainment, yet Goldsmith's novel is 
often reverted to with delight, from the vivid contrast it 
presents to the reigning school ; while the attractive pic- 
ture it affords of rural life and humble virtue, will evei 
render it intrinsically dear and valuable. 

But the " Deserted Village " is, of all Goldsmith's pro- 



GOLDSMITH. 45 

ductions, unquestionably the favourite. It carries back 
the mind to the early season of life, and re-asserts the 
power of unsophisticated tastes. Hence, while other po- 
ems grow stale, this preserves its charm. Dear to the 
heart and sacred to the imagination, are those sweet de- 
lineations of unperverted existence. There is true pa- 
thos in that tender lament over the superseded sports and 
ruined haunts of rustic enjoyment, which never fails to 
find a response in every feeling breast. It is an elabo- 
rate and touching epitaph, written in the cemetery of the 
world, over what is dear to all humanity. There is a 
truth in the eloquent defence of agricultural pursuits and 
natural pastimes, that steals like a well-remembered strain 
over the heart immersed in the toil and crowds of cities. 
There is an unborn beauty in the similes of the bird and 
her " unfledged offspring," the hare that " pants to the 
place from whence at first he flew," and the " tall cliff 
that lifts its aAvful form," which, despite their familiarity, 
retain their power to delight. And no clear and suscep- 
tible mind can ever lose its interest in the unforced, un- 
exaggerated and heart-stirring numbers, which animate 
with pleasure the pulses of youth, gratify the mature 
taste of manhood, and fall with a soothing sweetness 
upon the ear of age. 

We are not surprised at the exclamation of a young 
lady who had been accustomed to say, that our poet was 
the homeliest of men, after reading the " Deserted Village" 
— " I shall never more think Dr. Goldsmith ugly !" This 
poem passed through five editions in as many months, 
and from its domestic character became immediately 
popular throughout England. Its melodious versifica- 
tion is doubtless, in a measure, to be ascribed to its au- 
thor's musical taste, and the fascinating ease of its flow 
is the result of long study and careful revision. Nothing 
is more deceitful than the apparent facility observable in 



46 THOUGHTS ON THE POETS. 

poetry. No poet exhibits more of this characteristic than 
Ariosto, and yet his manuscripts are filled with erasures 
and repetitions. Few things appear more negligently 
graceful than the well-arranged drapery of a statue, yet 
how many experiments must the artist try before the de- 
sired effect is produced. So thoroughly did the author 
revise the " Deserted Village,'' that not a single original 
line remained. The clearness and warmth of his style 
is, to my mind, as indicative of Goldsmith's truth, as the 
candour of his character or the sincerity of his sentiments. 
It has been said of Pitt's elocution, that it had the effect 
of impressing one with the idea that the jnan was greater 
than the orator. A similar influence it seems to me is 
produced by the harmonious versification and elegant dic- 
tion of Goldsmith. 

It is not, indeed, by an analysis, however critical, of 
the intellectual distinctions of any author, that we can 
arrive at a complete view of his genius. It is to the feel- 
ings that we must look for that earnestness which gives 
vigour to mental efforts, and imparts to them their peculiar 
tone and colouring. And it will generally be found that 
what is really and permanently attractive in the works of 
genius, independent of mere diction, is to be traced rather 
to the heart than the head. We may admire the origi- 
nal conception, the lofty imagery or winning style of a 
popular author, but what touches us most deeply is the 
sentiment of which these are the vehicles. The fertile 
invention of Petrarch, in displaying under such a variety 
of disguises the same favourite subject, is not so moving 
as the unalterable devotion which inspires his fancy and 
quickens his muse. The popularity of Mrs. Hemans is 
more owing to the delicate and deep enthusiasm than to 
the elegance of her poetry, and Charles Lamb is not Jess 
attractive for his kindly affections than for his quaint hu- 
mour. Not a little of the peculiar charm of Goldsmith, is 



GOLDSMITH. 



47 



attributable to the excellence of his heart. Mere talent 
would scarcely have sufficed to interpret and display so 
enchantingly the humble characters and scenes to which 
his most brilliant efforts were devoted. It was his sin- 
cere and ready sympathy with man, his sensibility to suf- 
fering in every form, his strong social sentiment and his 
amiable interest in all around, which brightened to his 
mind's eye, what to the less susceptible is unheeded and 
obscure. Naturally endowed with free and keen sensi- 
bilities, his own experience of privation prevented them 
from indurating through age or prosperity. He cherished 
throughout his life an earnest faith in the better feelings 
of our nature. He realized the universal beauty and 
power of Love ; and neither the solitary pursuits of lite- 
rature, the elation of success, nor the blandishments of 
pleasure or society, ever banished from his bosom the 
generous and kindly sentiments which adorned his char- 
acter. He was not the mere creature of attainment, the 
reserved scholar or abstracted dreamer. Pride of intel- 
lect usurped not his heart. Pedantry congealed not the 
fountains of feeling. He rejoiced in the exercise of all 
those tender and noble sentiments which are so much 
more honourable to man than the highest triumphs of 
mind. And it is these which make us love the man not 
less than admire the author. Goldsmith's early sympa- 
thy with the sufferings of the peasantry, is eloquently 
expressed in both his poems and frequently in his prose 
writings. How expressive that lament for the destruc- 
tion of the ' Ale-House ' — that it would 

* No more impart 
An hour's importance to the poor man's heart.' 

There is more true benevolence in the feeling which 
prompted such a thought, than in all the cold and calcu- 
lating philosophy with which so many expect to ejevate 



48 THOUGHTS ON THE POETS. 

the lower classes in these days of ultra-reform. When 
shall we learn that we must sympathize with those we 
would improve ? At college, we are told, one bitter night 
Goldsmith encountered a poor woman and her infants 
shivering at the gate, and having no money to give them, 
bringing out all his bed-clothes to keep himself from 
freezing, cut open his bed and slept within it. When 
hard at work earning a scanty pittance in his garret, he 
spent every spare penny in cakes for the children of his 
poorer neighbours, and when he could do nothing else, 
taught them dancing by way of cheering their poverty. 
Notwithstanding his avowed antipathy to Baretti, he vis- 
ited and relieved him in prison; and when returning 
home with the lOOZ. received from his bookseller for the 
' Deserted Village,' upon being told by an acquaintance 
he fell in with, that it was a great price for so little a 
thing, replied, ' Perhaps it is more than he can afford,* 
and returning, offered to refund a part. To his poor coun- 
trymen he was a constant benefactor, and while he had a 
shilling was ready to share it with them, so that they fa- 
miliarly styled him ' our doctor.' In Leyden, when on 
the point of commencing his tour, he stripped himself of 
all his funds to send a collection of flower-roots to an un- 
cle who was devoted to botany ; and on the first occasion 
that patronage was offered him, declined aid for himself, 
to bespeak a vacant living for his brother. In truth, his 
life abounds in anecdotes of a like nature. We read one 
day of his pawning his watch for Pilkington, another of 
his bringing home a poor foreigner from Temple gardens 
to be his amanuensis, and again of his leaving the card- 
table to relieve a poor woman, whose tones as she chanted 
some ditty in passing, came to him above the hum of 
gaiety and indicated to his ear distress. Though the fre- 
quent and undeserved subject of literary abuse, he was 
never known to write severely against any one. 



GOLDSMITH. 49 

His talents were sacredly devoted to the cause of virtue 
and humanity. No malignant satire ever came from his 
pen. He loved to dwell upon the beautiful vindications 
in Nature of the paternity of God, and expatiate upon the 
noblest and most universal attributes of man. ' If I 
were to love you by rule,' he writes to his brother, ' I 
dare say I never could do it sincerely.' There was in 
his nature, an instinctive aversion to the frigid ceremo- 
nial and meaningless professions which so coldly imitate 
the language of feeling. Goldsmith saw enough of the 
world, to disrobe his mind of that scepticism born of cus- 
tom which ' makes dotards of us all.' He did not wan- 
der among foreign nations, sit at the cottage fire-side, nor 
mix in the thoroughfare and gay saloon, in vain. Travel 
liberalized his views and demolished the barriers of local 
prejudice. He looked around upon his kind with the 
charitable judgment and interest born of on observing 
mind and a kindly heart — ' with an infinite love, an infi- 
nite pity.' He delighted in the delineation of humble 
life, because he knew it to be the most unperverted. 
Simple pleasures warmed his fancy because he had learn- 
ed their preeminent tr'ith. Childhood with its innocent 
playfulness, intellectual character with its tutored wis- 
dom, and the uncultivated but ' bold peasantry,' interested 
him alike. He could enjoy an hour's friendly chat with 
his fellow-lodger — the watchmaker in Green Arbor 
Court — not less than a literary discussion with Dr. John- 
son. ' I must own,' he writes, ' I should prefer the title 
of the ancient philosopher, viz. ; a Citizen of ihe World, 
— to that of an Englishman, a Frenchman, an European, 
or that of any appellation whatever.' And this title he 
has nobly earned, by the wide scope of his sympathies 
and the beautiful pictures of life and nature universally 
recognized and univeiisally loved, which have spread his 
name over the world. Pilgrims to the supposed scene of 



50 THOUGHTS ON THE POETS. 

the Deserted Village have long since carried away every 
vestige of the hawthorn at Lissoy, but the laurels of 
Goldsmith will never be garnered by the hand of time, 
or blighted by the frost of neglect, as long as there are 
minds to appreciate, or hearts to reverence the household 
lore of English literature. 



GRAY 



Countless are the modifications of the poetic facuUy. 
In some natures it is fervent and occasional ; in others, 
calm and prevailing. In the impassioned heart it is a 
necessary channel for the healthy development of feel- 
ing ; in the contemplative and gentle bosom it sheds a 
patient and soothing light, like the beams of the moon on 
the current of reflection. It is " an ocean to the river of 
his thoughts " to one man, bearing in one direction his 
every idea and sentiment, colouring with a gloomy shade 
or rosy glow his conversation and his reveries, and 
weaving an illusive atmosphere around every phase of his 
experience. To another it is a subordinate element, de- 
pendent for its activity upon rare excitement and only 
tinging, almost imperceptibly, the pictures of memory and 
hope. Burns turned to poetry as a requisite medium of 
expression, the natural language of his soul. Byron 
found in its free and glowing strains a response to the 
earnest pleadings of his heart. To Goldsmith it seems a 
mirror for the beautiful sentiments he cherished; to 
Moore, a graceful echo for his patriotic and convivial 
sympathies. Poets of this class may be said to cultivate 
verse because to them life has touching mysteries and 
earnest meanings which verse can best interpret. But 
there is another species of rhymers to whom poetry is 
rather a pleasant accident than a necessity, a quiet senti- 
ment rather than an ardent passion, a subject of taste 



52 THOUGHTS ON THE POETS. 

more than of feeling. To this order of versifiers we are 
often indebted for the advancement of poetry as an art. 
Their muse is sufficiently tranquil to be guided with 
great circumspection. They accordingly have the even- 
ness of pulse and the calmness of eye which is wanted 
to select, compare, revise and polish. Their effusions 
often exhibit a metrical ingenuity, a choice of words and 
a nicety of design and finish which admir^^y serve to 
refine the standard of poetic taste. Before these classic 
models careless habits of versification gradually disap- 
pear. Correctness comes to be regarded as an essential 
quality of standard verse. In a word, the man of ardent 
fancy and strong feelings is forced to acknowledge that 
art is as necessary for the success of his poem as nature. 

The thoughts which demand utterance must be array- 
ed in a form beautiful from its symmetry and true con- 
struction. The casket must be elaborately finished, or 
the gems it enshrines will scarcely be appreciated. And 
thus, by degrees, poetical diction and metre became 
varied in beauty and elevated in style ; and the bard 
often exhibits as much genius in the felicitous arrange- 
ment as in the intrinsic excellence of his musings. 
Among the poetic artists w^ho have furnished highly fin- 
ished exemplars of English poesy, is Thomas Gray. 
Although but a small contributor, as regards the amount, 
to the jewels of the lyric crown, he is one of the most 
successful of those who have brought the chaste work- 
manship of the scholar to the service of the muse. 

No frenzy of youthful sentiment hurried Gray into 
poetry. He was always more absorbed with the crea- 
tions of other minds than his own. Perhaps the strong- 
est tendency of his nature was the liberal curiosity which 
made the pursuit of knowledge so dear to him that he 
was content to become a priest at her shrine. He turned 
not from the sequestered walks of college life, to plunge 



GRAY. 53 

into the excitements of a professional career. His youth- 
ful draughts at the " Pierian spring," instead of bracing 
him for immediate action in the sphere of the world, only- 
awakened a deeper thirst ; and although, to please his 
relatives, he became nominally a bachelor of laws, his 
entire life was in fact that of a devoted scholar. He 
studied with no purpose of immediate utility, but to sat- 
isfy that craving for large and varied knowledge which 
was his ruling passion. He presents one of those singu- 
lar exceptions, so rarely found among men of talent in 
England, by whom retirement and books are deliberately 
chosen in preference to politics, diplomacy, a profession or 
authorship. In the south of Europe, where despotism 
so effectually closes the avenues to distinction, it is in- 
deed a common thing to see intellectual men devote them- 
selves unobtrusively to the pursuit of some branch of 
science or literature. Many an enthusiast reaches a 
happy old age in chase of his favourite phantom. Ques- 
tions in philology, historical researches, the study of an- 
tiquities, and various other fields of mental exercise, be- 
guile minds that would fain, in the prime of their 
activity, have sought more genial and original occupation. 
But in England and the United States the gifted and 
educated man, of limited means, is soon drawn into the 
vortex of action, and becomes a competitor for the prizes 
of life. There is something in the very blood of the 
North which prompts her children to usefulness and 
honour. It requires no little resolution to stand aside and 
look on, when all around are in hot pursuit of wealth and 
fame. Cowper indeed fled from the crowd, but he was 
driven by a sad necessity. Gray perhaps felt his want of 
adaptation to general society and ordinar}^ toil. He was 
quite unambitious, of a delicate constitution, and without 
that practical tact which insures success. There is some-? 
thing not altogether selfish and unworthv in the philoso- 
4 



54 THOUGHTS ON THE POETS. 

phy he professed, which made him content to limit his 
wants to his income, to linger about the scene of his early- 
education, and hold communion with that " ample page, 
rich with the spoils of time ;" gleaning every day some 
new and valuable information, maintaining his own in- 
tegrity, respecting the rights of others, and calmly living 
in amiable and modest scholarship. As a general rule, 
indeed, this seclusion, this exclasi\^e devotiof^to personal 
improvement, however laudable, is not to be desired. We 
are born to act and suffer with others, to cherish social 
sympathies, and through them minister to general good. 
Even as students it were better to act upon the generous 
sentiment of Sir Thomas Brown : " I study not for 
myself alone, but for those who cannot study for them- 
selves." 

We would have the poet seek his inspiration amid the 
scenes of perplexity, sorrow and joy that make up human 
life; we would have him sometimes, like Burns, "put 
himself upon the regimen of admiring a fine woman ;" like 
Wordsworth, analyse the influence of scenery in training 
the simple and true soul ; and, like Byron, throw him- 
self in the way of the ancient, the beautiful and the ad- 
venturous, and reflect in his page the emotions they 
excite. But an occasional hermit among the poets is 
pleasing and picturesque, even though his hermitage is a 
library instead of a grotto. Gray passed a life of self- 
improvement. The most striking trait both of his muse 
and his character is refinement. He was one of those 
men who find their chief gratification in serene enjoy- 
ments. He loved to have every thing neat around him. 
How easily can we fancy his small but nicely arranged 
figure in that orderly, bacheloric room of his at Cam- 
bridge. There are his books carefully arranged, his case 
of medallions and portfolios of engravings collected dur- 
ing his Italian tour, " a pair of large blue and white old 



GRAY. 5f5 

japan China jars," bequeathed by will to his cousin ; — 
there are a harpsichord and music fairly copied by his 
own hand, lying by ; — boxes of mignionette and other 
plants adorn the window ; there is a tortoise-shell cat, a 
vase of gold fish, and on the table a blood-stone seal 
and beautiful inkstand. Every thing bespeaks order, 
quietude, and tranquil fancies. 

And here the man, ' tiny and tiresome,' as he calls him- 
self, sat day after day, thoroughly acquiring Greek litera- 
ture — divining the mysteries of heraldry and genealogy, 
mastering the principles of architecture, reading botany, 
history and poetry, or writing letters to his friends Dr. 
Wharton, Middleton, Mason or Beattie. He goes forth 
only to seek some desired tome at the library, to dine or 
pass an hour at the reading-room. Nothing but the 
rudeness of some fellow-lodgers induces him to change 
his quarters. He visits London occasionally, and once 
abides there for the space of three years, for the sake of 
copying some manuscripts at the British Museum. With 
all his temperance, he is afflicted with gout. His health 
fails ; he has times of low spirits. To improve his physi- 
cal condition and cheer his mind, he has recourse to the 
never-failing means — a journey — and visits, at different 
seasons, the English lakes, Scotland and Wales, enjoying 
their fine scenery and writing pleasant descriptive letters 
on the subject. And thus glided away the existence of 
Gray, until the disease under which he suffered attacked 
a vital part, and in two or three days he calmly departed 
and was buried beside his mother in the church-yard of 
Stoke. 

The affections which have so large a share in kindling 
the poetry of most bards, exerted but a limited sway over 
the intellectual career of Gray. The two beings who 
seem most deeply to have interested him were his mother 
and his college-friend, Richard West. To the former he 



56 THOUGHTS ON THE POETS. 

owed his education and all thai was happy in the associa- 
tion of his childhood. He was an attached son and sin- 
gularly blessed in one of his parents ; and after her de- 
cease, never alluded to her without a sigh. West for 
eight years was bound to him not only by youthful at- 
tachment but congenial taste. Their correspondence is 
manly and confiding. When Gray's last letter to his 
friend was returned to him unopened, with the news of 
his death, he felt that one of his sweetest ties to life was 
broken. They had long communicated to each other the 
progress of their studies, submitting to each other's inspec- 
tion their first attempts in verse, and seeking and finding 
mutual encouragement by strewing the pathway of early 
application with the flowers of friendship. 

Gray paid a tribute to his friend in the following 
sonnet : 

In vain to me the smiling mornings shine, 

And redd'ning Phoebus lifts his golden fire : 
The birds in vain their amorous descant join, 

Or cheerful fields resume their green atlire: 
These can, alas ! for other notes repine, 

A different object do these eyes require : 
My lonely anguish melts no heart but mine, 

And in my breast the imperfect joys expire. 
Yet morning smiles the busy race to cheer, 

And new-born pleasure brings to happier men : 
The fields to all their wonted tribute bear ; 

To warm their little loves the birds complain : 
I fruitless mourn to him that cannot hear, 

And weep the more because I weep in vain. 

West was a youth of rare promise. His early death 
and the subsequent loss of the poet's mother evidently 
colour the early efforts of Gray's muse. These bereave- 
ments narrowed the already small circle of his sympa- 
thies. They led him to regard the aims of the multi- 
tude with more indifference than ever, and doubtless in- 



GRAY. 57 

duced the tone of distrust of life's promises which mark 
his best verses. The most buoyant era of Gray's exis- 
tence, if we judge by his letters, was the period of his 
absence on the continent. He was fresh from his college 
studies when, at the invitation of his fellow- student and 
friend, Horace Walpole, he accompanied him to France 
and Italy. Every thing was novel and attractive to the 
mind of Gray. He mingled enough with society to grat- 
ify his curiosity. He was indefatigable in his study of 
the remains of antiquity and the fine arts. Among his 
papers were found notes, speculative as well as matter of 
fact, respecting the old masters and the customs of the 
ancients, which prove his discrimination and taste. His 
muse seems to have been first inspired by the rugged pre- 
cipices, the rocky chasms and dark pines of the moun- 
tains where the convent of the Grand Chartense is situ- 
ated. He dwells upon the romantic impressions he there 
derived, and wrote a Latin ode on the subject in the al- 
bum of the monks. After the two friends, like most fel- 
low-travellers who keep together too long, differed and 
parted, Gray returned speedily to England. The bard's 
biographers speak of this event more seriously than 
it deserves, and declare very emphatically that Wal- 
pole acknowledged himself in fault when they were af- 
terwards reconciled. From what we know of the two 
men, the only wonder is that they found it agreeable to 
remain so long together. Walpole, with his gaiety and 
love of pleasure, could scarcely have proved a genial com- 
panion, for any length of time, to a man who viewed 
things with the seriousness of Gray and wished to make 
a study of every thing he saw. They are thought to be 
the first English travellers who visited the remains of 
Herculaneum, which were discovered a few days be- 
fore they reached Naples. 

It was the constitutional diffidence of Gray that in- 



58 THOUGHTS ON THE POETS. 

duced him to remark that he could perceive no medium 
between a public and private life. Upon this idea he 
habitually acted. He refused the laureateship ; and al- 
though he accepted a professorship of history, never 
lectured. 

It is quite characteristic that at a ball at Rome, which 
he describes in one of his letters, he retired to a comer 
and amused himself with looking on and eating ices, 
while his companions were absorbed in the dance. He 
never proposed to himself the honours of a poet. His 
verses were kept by him, frequently revised and at first 
only circulated in manuscript, and originally appeared in 
print without his intervention. Common cares over- 
whelmed him. His conscientiousness is also manifest 
throughout his correspondence. He suffered great self- 
reproach for every seeming neglect of duty, and cheer- 
fully resigned a legacy to a relative poorer than himself. 

The poetry of Gray is, like his life and character, cor- 
rect, scholar-like and reflective. It is singularly free 
from all trace of impulse and fervour. Its most striking 
beauties are verbal, and the trait which mainly charms 
us is that of choice expression or elegance of diction. 
Art predominates in every line. There is little creative 
energy, little divine earnestness or exuberant fancy. All 
is chaste, appropriate and carefully elaborated. The 
point at which we recognise what is individual and 
therefore affecting in Gray's poems, is pathos. He did 
not possess that comprehensive sympathy essential to 
dramatic writing. The fragment of his tragedy, Agrip- 
pina, betrays a familiarity with classic models, and pos- 
sesses a certain felicity of language, but beyond this 
promises little and was wisely abandoned. A large por- 
tion of his limited writings consist of translations from the 
Latin, Norse and Welsh poets ; and his early taste, led 
him to confine his poetical efforts to the former language. 



GRAY. 59 

His English poems have little descriptive merit, and m 
the few attempts he made in the way of humour must 
be deemed unsuccessful. But when his muse obeyed 
the thoughtful and melancholy view which constituted 
the most genuine poetical phase of his mind, we are car 
ried along by her solemn but pleasing strain and feel the 
true inspiration of pathos subdued in its expression by 
reflection and taste, " Gray," said Walpole, " was never 
a boy." His solitary vigils amid the philosophers and 
poets of antiquity, his recluse habits, his early bereave- 
ments, his thoughtful temper, all fitted him to muse and 
to moralise over the serious aspect of life. Yet his pa 
thos is never obtrusive or forced, but flov/s with a native 
and winning beauty. Even in the simple epitaph he 
inscribed upon his mother's tomb we recognise this qui-ei 
yet none the less touching sadness that distinguishes his 
poetry : 

"Here 

Sleep the Remains 

of 

Dorothy Gray, Widow; 

The careful, tender mother of many children; 

One of whom alone had the misfortune to survive her.'^ 

The very subject of most of his verses indicates a pbi 
losophic sadness. The " Ode on a Distant Prospect ti 
Eton College," is but the reminiscence of a man regret- 
ful of departed youth : 

Ah, happy hills ! ah, pleasing shade t 
Ah, fields beloved in vain / 
; Where once my careless childhood strayed, 

A stranger yet to pain! 

How feelingly he anticipates the coming experience of 
the sporting boys ! 

Alas ! regardless of their doom. 
The little victims play ; 



> 



60 THOITGKTS ON THE POETS. 

No sense have they of ills to come ; 

No care beyond to-day : 
Yet see how all around them wait 
The ministers of human fate, 

And black misfortune's baleful train ! 
Ah, show them where in ambush stand, 
To seize their prey, the murth'rous band ! 

And tell them they are men ! 

His preference of quiet pleasures and the consolations 
of " a thinking mind self-occupied," is portrayed in the 
ode on Vicissitude : 

Smiles on past misfortune's brow 

Soft reflection's hand can trace ; 

And o'er the cheek of sorrow throw 

A melancholy grace. 
« * * * * 

The hues of bliss more brightly glow 
Chastis'd by sabler tints of wo ; 
And blended, form with artful strife^ 
The strength and harmony of life. 
***** 

See the wretch, that long has tost 

On the stormy bed of pain. 
At length repair his vigour lost. 

And breathe and walk again : 

The meanest floweret of the vale. 

The simplest note that swells the gale. 

The common sun, the air, the skies, 

To him are opening paradise. 

***** 

Humble quiet builds her cell 

Near the source whence pleasure flows ? 

She eyes the clear crystalline well, 
And tastes it as it goes. 

There are but few bold and original ideas in the odes 
of Gray, notwithstanding their occasional beauty of ex- 
pression. His allusion to Milton in the Progress of Poesy, 
is striking : 



GRAY. 



61 



He passed the flaming bounds of place and time : 
The living throne, the sapphire blaze, 
Where angels tremble while they gaze 
He saw ; but, blasted with excess of light. 
Closed his eyes in endless night. 

Perhaps the popularity of a line depends as much upon 
the happy choice of words as the ideas it conveys. The 
close of the following stanza which, as a whole is com- 
man-place enough, has passed into a proverb : 

To each his sufferings ; all are men, 

Condemned alike to groan ; 
The tender for another's pain, 

Th' unfeeling for his own. 
Yet, ah ! why should they know their fate, 
Since sorrow never comes too late, 

And happiness too swiftly flies ? 
Thought would destroy their paradise 
No more ; — where ignorance is bliss, 

' Tis folly to be wise. 

The same is true of the following fine image : 

Hark, his hands the Ijtc explore ! 

Bright-eyed Fancy hovering o'er, 

Scatters from her pictured urn 

Thoughts that breathe and words that burn. 

The beauties and deficiencies of Gray, both as a man 
and a poet, are traceable to his fastidious taste. This 
bounded his social nature, while it wove strong and pure 
ties between his mind and outward beauty. It rendered 
him too careful in his choice of intimates to give scope to 
that free cordiality of soul which distinguishes poets of 
deeper feeling. It made him pick his way too scrupu- 
lously through life, to ensure a broad and healthful expe- 
rience. It fostered that pride which made him disavow 
reputation and utility, and wish to pass for " a gentleman 
who read for his amusement." It restrained his muse by 
a too exact discipline, but at the same time polished and 
4=^ 



62 THOUGHTS ON THE POETS, 

refined into gems the little she vouchsafed to produce. 
It marked in fact all his habits and opinions. We see 
it in the neatness of his chirography, in the studied cor- 
rectness of his familiar epistles, in the adjustment of his 
aitire, the careful selection of his rhymes and epithets, 
the pains he took in superintending the musical adapta- 
tion of his ode, and the minute directions for his burial. 
Many, indeed, are the benefits resulting from a large 
organ of order, but there is such a thing in the progress 
of the intellect and the ordering of daily life, as being 
" more nice than wise," and in this regard chiefly does 
our poet seem to have erred. Of his harmless and 
studious life, time has fairly spared but one beautiful 
relic. His reputation as a scholar is like a tale that is 
lold ; his odes are quite neglected ; but his " Elegy in a 
Country Churchyard," will bear his name gracefully 
down the tide of ages. It is one of the immortal poems 
of the language, and every year sees it renewed, illus- 
trated, and more and more hallowed. It is perfectly 
characteristic of Gray. Almost every line is a select 
phrase not to be improved by taste or ingenuity. The 
stibject is one of the happiest in the range of poetry. To 
roam through cities of the dead and muse over the hum- 
ble names there chronicled, to ponder amid the tombs 
upon the mysteries of life, the varieties of earthly for- 
tune, the strange lot which ordains that man should live 
and love, and then pass away and be remembered no 
more — this is no flight of fancy, but a train of thought 
and experience so near the universal mind, so suggestive 
to the heart, so familiar to the least meditative, that it 
appeals at once and with eloquence to all human beings. 
We all love to speculate upon the injustice of destiny 
and the latent capacity of every man. We feel that 
" chill penury" has repressed the " noble rage" of many 
H gifted spirit. We cherish an instinctive faith in the un- 



GRAY. 63 

developed talent, the secret virtue, the obscure excellence 
of the millions who die and "make no sign." And who 
has not strayed at sunset into the quiet precincts of a 
country church-yard? Who has not sought the spot 
where " the rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep ?" Who 
has not felt a melancholy pleasure steal upon his soul, as 
he has stood among the graves and received the solemn 
teachings of the scene, " amid the lingering light ?" The 
spirit of such reveries, the tone and hues of such a land- 
scape, Gray has caught and enshrined forever in verse. 
The thoughts which compose the Elegy are not startling 
and new ; not a line it contains but has been traced by 
learned criticism to some ancient or modern source, and 
scarcely a word has escaped question from those micro- 
scopic commentators who rejoice to pick flaws in what- 
ever gem of art or literature charms the world. Gray's 
Elegy may, indeed, absolutely possess no higher claim 
to the reputation it enjoys than that of being an ingenious 
piece of mosaic ; but wherever the materials were de- 
rived, the effect of the whole is too excellent to permit us 
to quarrel with the details. The very cadence of the 
stanza is attuned to elegiac music. It floats solemnly 
along like the moaning of the breeze in spring, amid the 
cypresses and willows. The hues of the picture are sub- 
dued to the " sober livery" of twilight. Tender senti- 
ments — a regret made sublime by the sense of beauty — a 
recognition of death blended with a vague feeling of its' 
mysterious revelations — the sweet quietude of evening — 
sad but soothing thoughts of "passing away" — the mem- 
ory of the departed — all throng upon us in every verse 
of the Elegy, and associate the name of the gentle stu- 
dent of Cambridge, with ideas of contemplative delight. 



COLLINS. 



Enthusiastic men delight to place themselves in direct 
relation with whatever interests their minds. The merely 
curious are satisfied to observe, to acquaint themselves 
with the remarkable points of any subject. Such is the 
difference between knowledge and sympathy, intellect 
and feeling, the philosopher and the poet. The former 
calmly inquires, and when the truth is elicited is con- 
tent ; the latter earnestly contemplates, till the sentiment 
of his theme warms and overflows his heart. The anti- 
quarian is delighted when a half-legible inscription is 
plausibly conjectured or the age of an architectural frag- 
ment defined. The more ardent explorer of ruins, finds 
enjoyment in summoning back the men and events that 
hallow the scene ; in musing, amid broken columns and 
mossy walls, over the wonders of human destiny and 
the poetry of time. This spontaneous interest, this sym- 
pathetic attraction is one of the characteristics of the ge- 
nuine poet. He occupies toward congenial subjects of 
thought the relation of a lover. He kneels to win the 
veneration he seeks, he pleads for response to his impas- 
sioned regard, he boldly addresses the creature of his 
fancy, tKe idea of his mind, the object of his thought, 
finding relief and joy in the eloquent appeal. What we 
call personification is the natural language of ideal and 
sincere minds. It is a language which it is difficult to 
counterfeit. No resource of the poet and orator is less 



COLLINS. 65 

eas}^ to feign. We are either borne along or repelled by 
an apostrophe. When a speaker or a bard adopts such 
language merely for effect, his failure is decisive. The 
imagery and tone too suddenly fall short of the opening 
address. When Bryant, for instance, begins his apos- 
trophe to a waterfowl, we feel that it is no trick of art, 
but a genuine poetic impulse that prompts his muse. She 
follows the lonely bird with the instincf of a wondering 
interest, through the grey twilight, till the " abyss of 
heaven has swallowed up iis form." There is no falter- 
ing or artificial effort, all is sustained and free as that so- 
litary flight itself We feel that the eye and mind of the 
poet were actually in relation with the form he invoked. 
Far more dangerous is the attempt to apostrophize any- 
thing abstract, without any real and deep interest in the 
subject. The very adoption of this form of verse presup- 
poses that the poet's soul is filled and kindled by his sub- 
ject. He manfully and earnestly confronts his theme, and 
if he does not succeed in placing it in a new and striking 
light, or throwing around it a warm colouring and expres- 
sive interest, he convicts himself of absurd presumption. 
The poet of true feeling, whose inspiration springs from 
the soul rather than mere art or taste, will naturally often 
resort to personification and apostrophe. Some of Byron's 
first passages are of this description, and a striking proof 
of his genius may be found in the fact that, with few ex- 
ceptions, we sympathize at once with these flights. They 
accord with the state of feeling the poet has awakened. 
The address to Parnassus, to Rome, and to some of the 
celebrated works of art, find an echo in every bosom 
where meditative sentiment abides. " I cannot furbish," 
says Byron. " I am like the tiger, if I miss the first 
spring, I go growling back to my jungle." 

How admirably are examples of this kind introduced 
in Shakspere. How perfectly are we prepared for the 



66 THOUGHTS ON THE POETS. 

Moor's apostrophe to Patience, " that young and rose- 
lipped cherubim," and Macbeth's address to the airy dag- 
ger. When feeling is wrought up to a certain point, its 
language is poetic. We then forget the conventional and 
grapple with the one overmastering idea. Such is the 
case in actual experience ; and so the poet, when by ear- 
nest contemplation his sympathies are all enlisted in a 
subject, turns the whole force of his mind in that direc- 
tion, expands his nature to drink in its suggestions as a 
flower opens to the sun and pours forth upon it the con- 
centrated flow of thought, as a pilgrim at his long-sought 
shrine or a lover at the feet of his mistress. Of the 
English poets whose sensibility and ardour of thought 
have led them successfully to personify their themes, 
William Collins takes a high rank. He is the acknowl- 
edged author of one of the few immortal odes of the 
language. His life was clouded with disappointment. 
He failed in obtaining a fellowship, after a promismg 
college career ; and this circumstance, together with 
pecuniary embarrassments, led him to quit the university 
for London, and embark in the precarious pursuits of lit- 
erary adventure. Irresolute and visionary, he projected 
grand schemes which were often never seriously com- 
menced and in no case fully realized. Some critics 
charge the failure of these designs wholly to the poet's 
indolence, without considering how difficult regular men- 
tal occupation must be to a sensitive man harassed by 
poverty, watched by bailiffs, and in daily anxiety for the 
means of subsistence. His eyes were so weak that 
blindness was apprehended. It was his misfortune to 
love in vain, and when affections such as his served " to 
water but the desert," the apathy he manifested in regard 
to his plans of research, must have been confirmed. His 
odes were so neglected at their first appearance, that with 
indignant warmth he burned the balance of the edition. 



COLLINS. 67 

He was early separated from his immediate family, and 
the only relative with whom he maintained intercourse 
was a sister who possessed not a single trait of charac- 
ter in common with him, evinced no interest in his pur- 
suits and scorned his generous impulses. When at last 
fortune smiled upon Collins, and the bequest of an uncle 
placed him above want, the brilliant faculties which had 
been his consolation and sustained his self-respect, began 
to fail. Change of scene produced no amendment, and 
the gifted and susceptible bard became a lunatic. His 
malady seems to have alternated for several years be- 
tween violence and melancholy ; sometimes there were 
lucid intervals, when he rallied his disordered powers; at 
others'his imbecility or insane ravings terrified all about him. 
In the cathedral of Chichester is a monument, by 
Flaxman, representing the unfortunate poet in a reclining 
posture, the New Testament open before him, his lyre 
and one of his compositions neglected at his feet, his 
expression calm and benevolent, and on the pediment are 
carved the effigies of Love and Pity. It must be soothing 
to gaze upon these peaceful emblems and remember how 
often the adjacent cloisters have echoed with the frantic 
cries of one who is now slumbering so quietly. From 
the few facts recorded of Collins, it is evident that he 
was a man of keen sensibility and a glowing mind. He 
seems to have charmed all who knew him, and most of 
his intimates were men distinguished for talent. His 
sympathies were broad and earnest, such as win love 
and inspire confidence. He was the endeared compan- 
ion of Thomson and Garrick, Dr. Armstrong and Hill. 
Even Johnson, little as he appreciated his verses, evi- 
dently felt the graces of his character. Indeed, in some 
of the letters of the moralist, there are expressions of 
tender concern in behalf of Collins which indicate the 
rare estimation in which he was held. The social spirit 



68 THOUGHTS ON THE POETS. 

of the poet, his warm friendship, his passion for Shaka- 
pere and music, are so many evidences of his sanguine 
temper and native sentiment. His soul was like a finely 
strung harp, too rudely exposed long to retain its har- 
monious tone. Yet every breeze that swept its strings 
drew forth melody ; and ere it was jarred into discord a 
few strains were happily elicited, which still abide to 
cheer our hearts, and with their pensive music vindicate 
the rare worth of the departed. 

The poetic fire of Collins was concentrated in its de- 
velopment. He attempted no extensive range. He went 
not forth to chronicle the details of nature. We find no 
elaborate pictures, no subtle and refined comments on ex- 
ternal things or human life, but an intense revelation, a 
concise view, a bright glimpse caught from the fervour 
of the poet's thought. His eclogues and heroic poems 
may be considered as the early experiments rather than 
the legitimate fruits of his genius. They show command 
of language and taste but no strong individual traits. In 
the odes, although they are unequal in felicious expres- 
sion, the peculiar force of Collins appears. By a single 
epithet, a graphic apostrophe, an image freshly springing 
from his ardent mind, we often receive an impression 
more vivid and pleasing than other bards convey by a 
succession of laboured metaphors and rhymes. The de- 
scription of danger is well known as an instance, in point : 

Danger whose limbs of giant mould 

What mortal eye can fixed behold ? 

Who stalks his round, a hideous form 

Howling amidst the midnight storm ; 

Or throws him on the ridgy steep. 

Of some loose, hanging rock to sleep. 

He tells us that simplicity is 

by Nature taught 

To breathe her genuine thought, 

In numbers warmly pure and sweetly strong. 



COLLINS. 69 

Here we have a perfect definition in common but adequate 
words. And the idea is carried out most pleasingly by 
such phrases as " hermit heart," " decent maiden " and 
'* sister meek of truth." This delicate propriety of lan- 
guage is characteristic of Collins, and enables him to ven- 
ture upon figures which a less chaste poet would urge into 
extravagance. How the imagination is filled and charm- 
ed by two images of one of his most famous odes : 

When spring with dewy fingers cold 

Returns to deck their hallowed mould. 

* * * * 

There Honour comes, a pilgrim gray, 
To bless the turf that wraps their clay. 

Who has not envied the sleep of the brave thus guarded 
and graced ? Who has not been thrilled at the idea of 
beautiful spring " with dewy fingers cold" lingering over 
the hero's grave, and seen in fancy the august image of 
that gray pilgrim invoking a benediction upon the conse- 
crated spot ? In the twelve line? of this ode there is a 
world of meaning. The fancy and the heart are deeply 
impressed, and yet how simple the diction and unpre- 
tending the design. Mercy is characterized w^ith the 
same felicity of metaphor and epithet : 

Oh thou, who sitt'st a smiling bride, 
By Valour's arm'd and awful side, 
Gentlest of sky-born forms and best adored. 

Subsequently she is represented as looking away rage, 
the most touching manner in which we can imagine her 
power to be exerted. A constant tendency to personify 
appears throughout the poetry of Collins. In his ode on 
the death of Colonel Ross, we have again the image of 
Honour slightly varied : 

Blest youth, regardful of thy doom, 

-^rial hands shall build thy tomb, 

With shadowy trophies crown'd ; 



70 THOUGHTS ON THE POETS. 

Whil'st Honour bathed in tears shall rovws 
To sigh thy name through every grove, 
And call his heroes round. 

What bold images follow : 

The w^arlike dead of every age, 
Who fill the fair recording page, 

Shall leave their sainted rest ; 
And half-reclining on his spear, 
Each w^andering chief by turns appear 

To hail the blooming guest 

But lo, where sunk in deep despair, 
Her garments torn, her bosom bare, 

Impatient Freedom lies ! 
Her matted tresses madly spread, 
To every sod which wraps the dead, 

She turns her joyless eyes. 

This spirited ode was written to commemorate the 
death of the poet's rival, who was affianced to the lady 
of his heart at the time of his d^icease. One of the few 
jokes related of Collins has reference to his unfortunate 
love. He was born within a few hours of his unkind 
mistress, and used to remark facetiously that he came into 
the world " the day after the fair." Few poets more 
successfully give us the sensation of a scene or an event 
than Collins. In his ode to Evening, he speaks of the 
beetle's " small but sullen horn," the "heedless hum," 
the " folding-star," and " the pensiA^e pleasures" that 
" prepare the shadowy car," " hamlets brown," " dim- 
discovered spies " and " the gradual dusky veil — " ex- 
pressions which make us almost sensibly feel the coming 
on of the twilight. It is a fine idea that Peace should be 
invoked, as in the following stanza, to unite herself with 
the only principle that makes her existence consistent 
with national dignity : 

Let others court thy transient smile, 
But come to grace thy western isle. 



COLLINS. 71 

By warlike honour led ; 
* ^ And, while around her ports rejoice. 

While all her sons adore thy choice, 
With him forever wed ! 

The faith Collins placed in native inspiration as the 
source Of poetry rather than art or study, is suggested by 
this invocation : 

Nature ! boon from whence proceed, 

Each forceful thought, each prompted deed ; 

If but from thee I hope to feel 

On all my heart imprint thy seal ! 

Let some retreating cynic find 

Those oft-turned scrolls I leave behind ; 

The sports and I this hour agree 

To roam thy scene-ful world with thee. 

In the attempt to appreciate the elements of genius, we 
should select the most complete specimen. Expression 
is at all times a difficult process and the most fluent poet 
often fails to give utterance to what is glowing in his 
mind. The fairest example of the poetry of Collins is 
his celebrated Ode on the Passions. Observation alone 
could not have gifted him so to describe as in this master- 
piece of verse. The heart that prompted this picture 
must have known, in its own delicate and earnest work- 
ings, the mysterious fluctuation so vividly sketched. 
Rare sympathy with human nature revealed these 
striking touches. Briefly as each passion is depicted, 
the key-note is struck which at once suggests what is 
left unsaid. How impressively the metrical harmony 
accords with the feelings portrayed. It was unnecessary 
to adapt this ode to music ; the very numbers are melo- 
diously expressive. What speaking figures of speech 
are those which make Fear strike the lyre with " one 
rude crash," and then recoil at a sound of its own crea- 
tion ; Despair call forth a strain alternately sad and wild ; 



72 THOUGHTS ON THE POETS. 

Hope appear with " eyes so fair," and awaken echo so 
typical of her own illusions ; Jealousy, with no fixed 
cadence, restless and variable as its own perplexed mood ; 
melancholy's notes " by distance made more sweet " and 
dying away " in hollow murmurs ;" Cheerfulness with 
" buskin gemmed with morning dew " beguiling forth 
" brown exercise " and " sylvan boys peeping from 
their alleys green " and Mirth shaking " a thousand 
odours from her dewy wings !" In this one production 
how much of the essence of true poetry is concentrated. 
How it sets at nought the superficial criticism of Dr. 
Johnson. How eloquently does it suggest the depth of 
feeling, the susceptibility and the beautiful insight which 
distinguished the genius of Collins. If this gem was not 
originally recognised at its true value, later times have 
made amends for previous neglect. An adept in the art 
of elocution can give a pathos, and vividness to this ode of 
which few English poems are capable. Its variety is 
admirable, its imagery bold and glowing, and the whole 
conception warm with the imaginative beauty of a poet's 
mind. It has made dear the name of Collins, and hallow- 
ed the memory of his sufferings, by associating them with 
the sacred legacy of genius. 



POPE. 



That system of compensation which is thought by many 
to balance the apparent inequalities of human destiny, is 
strikingly illustrated in the case of Alexander Pope. 
Born in obscurity, he achieved a great reputation, ex- 
tremely feeble in frame, his mind was singularly ener- 
getic, cut off by deformity from many accomplishments, 
he gave to his intellectual efforts an unrivalled elegance. 
Who would have imagined, in contemplating the delicate 
and misshapen child, that life, by any possibility, could 
prove any thing to him but a weary experience, whose 
monotony would be totally unrelieved ? Yet glance at 
the adventures of his poetical career, and in number and 
variety they vnW be found equal to those of many a hale 
knight or wild votary of fashion. At what a tender age 
he renounced the dictation of masters, assumed the reins 
of education, and resolutely launched into the profession 
of a poet ! How soon he was engaged in a quarrel with 
Ambrose Phillips, and what a long satirical contest en^ 
sued with Dennis and Gibber ! Then followed his inti- 
macy with Lady Montague ; their fierce encounters of 
wit ; their friendship, correspondence, and mutual enmi- 
ty. These and similar scenes of literary animosity, were 
brightened by friendly intercourse with Gay, Swift, and 
Bolingbroke, and relieved by long periods of study and 
composition, visits to noblemen, short journeys, and do- 
mestic duties And thus the weak and diminutive poet 
5 



74 THOUGHTS ON THE POETS. 

managed to rise above the dull existence his organization 
seemed to ensure, and to find abundance of interest in 
the excitement of critical warfare and the pursuit of poeti- 
cal renown. It is a wonderful evidence of the power of 
mind, that this hlighted germ of humanity — who was 
braced in canvass in order to hold himself upright — put 
to bed and undressed all his life like a child — often una- 
ble to digest the luxuries he could not deny himself, or to 
keep his eyes open at the honourable tables to which his 
talents alone gave him access — should yet be ihe terror of 
his foes, the envy of his rivals, and the admiration of his 
friends. He could not manage the sword he so ostenta- 
tiously displayed in society, but he wielded a pen whose 
caustic satire was amply adequate to minister either to his 
self-defence or revenge. He was ' sent into this breath- 
ing world but half made up,' and calls his existence ' a 
long disease ;' but nature atoned for the unkindness, by 
endowing him with a judgment marvellous for its refined 
correctness. He could not enjoy with his neighbours the 
healthful exercises of the chase ; but while they were 
pursuing a poor hare, with whose death ended the sport, 
his mind was borne along in a race of rhyme destined to 
carry his name with honour to posterity. He never 
laughed heartily ; but while weaving his heroics, forgot 
pain, weariness and the world. In the street, he was an 
object of pity — at his desk, a king. His head was early 
deprived of hair, and ached severely almost every day of 
his life ; but his eyes w^ere singularly expressive, and his 
voice uncommonly melodious. In youth he suffered the 
decrepitude of a^e, but at the same time gave evidence 
of mental precocity and superior sense. He was un- 
equal to a personal rencontre with those who ridiculed 
his works ; but he has bestowed upon them _ an immortal 
vengeance in the Dunciad. His unfortunate person shut 
him out from the triumphs of gallantry, but his talents 



POPE. 7t5 

and reputation long secured him the society and professed 
friendship of the most brilliant woman of the day ; and 
obtained for him, during most of his life, the faithful 
care and companionship of Martha Blount. He never 
knew the buoyancy of spirit which good health induces, 
but was very familiar with that keen delight that springs 
from successful mental enterprise. He could not com- 
mand the consideration attached to noble birth ; but, on 
the strength of his intellectual endowments, he was al- 
ways privileged to tax the patience of his titled acquaint- 
ance for his own convenience and pleasure. 

Men of letters have been called a race of creatures of 
a nature between the two sexes. Pope is a remarkable 
exemplification of the idea. There is a tone of decided 
manliness in the strong sense which characterizes his 
productions, and a truly masculine vigour in the patient 
application with which he opposed physical debility. His 
disposition on the other hand was morbidly vain. He 
was weak enough to indulge an ambition for distinguish- 
ed acquaintance, and a most effeminate caprice swayed his 
attachments and enmities. Another prominent trait in- 
creased his resemblance to the female sex. I allude to 
a quality which the phrenologists call secretiveness. In 
its healthy exercise its operation is invaluable. To its 
influence is ascribed much of that address and tact, in 
which women are so superior to men. The latter, in or- 
dinary affairs, generally adopt a very direct course. They 
confide in strength rather than policy. They overlook 
lesser means in the contemplation of larger ends. This, 
indeed, is partly owing to their position. Nature always 
gives additional resources where the relation is that of 
the pursued rather than the pursuer. Hence, the insight 
into character, the talent for observation, the skill in trac- 
ing motives and anticipating results, which belong to wo- 
men. It is the abuse, however, of this trait that is obvi- 



76 THOUGHTS ON THE POETS. 

ous in Pope. There seems little question that he was an 
artful man. He made use of the most unnecessary strata- 
gems to compass a simple favour. His cunning, indeed, 
was chiefly directed to the acquisition of fame ; but no- 
thing' subtracts more from our sense of reputation, than 
a conviction that it is an exclusive end to its possessor. 
Truly great men never trouble themselves about their 
fame. They press bravely on in the path of honour and 
leave their renown to take care of itself. It succeeds as 
certainly as any law of nature. All elevated spirits h ve 
a calm confidence in this truth. Washington felt it n 
the darkest hour of the revolution, and Shakspere un- 
consciously realized it, when he concluded his last play, 
and went quietly down to finish his days in the country. 
Pope was a gifted mortal, but he was not of this calibre. 
He thought a great deal about his reputation. He was 
not satisfied merely to labour for it, and leave the result 
He disputed its possession inch by inch with the critics, 
and resorted to a thousand petty tricks to secure its en- 
joyment. The management he displayed in order to pub- 
lish his letters, is an instance in point. No one can read 
them without feeling they were written for more eyes 
than those of his correspondents. There is a laboured 
smartness, a constant exhibition of fine sentiment, which 
is strained and unnatural. His repeated deprecation of 
motives of aggrandizement, argues, ' a thinking too pre- 
cisely' on the very subject ; and no man, whose chief am- 
bition was to gain a few dear friends, would so habitually 
proclaim it. These tender and delicate aspirations live 
in the secret places of the heart. They are breathed in 
lonely prayers, and uttered chiefly in quiet sighs. Scarcely 
do they obtain natural expression amid the details of a 
literary correspondence. True sentiment is modest. It 
may tinge the conversation and give a feeling tone to the 
epistle, but it makes not a confessional of every sentry- 



POPE. 77 

box, or gallery. The letters of Pope leave upon the 
mind an impression of affectation. Doubtless they con- 
tain much that is sincere in sentiment and candid in opi- 
nion, but the general effect lacks the freedom and hearti- 
ness of genuine letter-writing. Many of the bard's 
foibles should be ascribed to his bodily ailments, and the 
indulgence which he always commanded. Nor should 
we forget that he proved himself above literary servility — 
and was, in many instances, a most faithful friend, and 
always an exemplary son. Pope was the poet of wit 
and fancy, rather than of enthusiasm and imagination. 
His invention is often brilliant, but never grand. He 
rarely excites any sentiment of sublimity, but often one of 
pleasure. There is little in his poetry that seems the off- 
spring of emotion. He never appears to have written 
from overpowering impulse. His finest verses have an 
air of premeditation. We are not swept away by a torrent 
of individual passion as in Byron, nor melted by a natu- 
ral sentiment as in Burns, nor exalted by a grandeur of 
imagery as in Milton. We read Pope with a regular 
pulse. He often- provokes a smile, but never calls forth a 
tear. His rationality appproves itself to our understand- 
ing, his fancifulness excites our applause ; but the cita- 
del of the soul is uninvaded. We perceive, unawares per- 
haps, that books have quickened the bard's conception far 
more than experience. It may be fairly doubted whether 
Pope possessed, in any great degree, the true political sen- 
sibility to Nature. He thought more of his own domains 
than becomes a true son o the muse, and had a most 
unpoetical regard for money, as well as contempt for pov- 
erty. His favourite objects of contemplation were Alex- 
ander Pope and Twickenham. We cannot wonder that 
he failed as an editor of Shakspere. Few objects or 
scenes of the outward world awoke feelings in his bosom 
" too deep for tears." He never claimed such fellowship 
5* 



78 THOUGHTS ON THE POETS. 

with the elements as to fancy himself * a portion of the 
tempest.' It is true he describes well; but where the 
materials of his pictures are not borrowed, they resemble 
authentic nomenclatures more than genial sketches. He 
does not personify nature with the ardour of a votary. He 
never follows with a lover's perception the phases of a 
natural phenomenon. The evening wind might have 
cooled his brow forever, ere he would have been prompted 
to trace its course with the grateful fondness of Bryant. 
He might have lived upon the sea-coast, and never revell- 
ed in its grandeur as did the Peer, and passed a daisy 
every day, nor felt the meek appeal of its lowly beauty, as 
did the Ploughman. Even in his letters. Pope depicts 
scenery with a very cool admiration ; and never seems 
to associate it with any sentiment of moral interest. 
Where any thing of this appears, it is borrowed. . The 
taste of Pope was evidently artificial to the last degree. 
He delighted in a grotto decked out with looking-glass and 
coloured stones, as much as Wordsworth in a mountain- 
path, or Scott in a border antiquity. The Rape of the 
Lock is considered his most characteristic production, and 
abounds with brilliant fancy and striking invention. 
But to what is it devoted ? The celebration of a trivial 
incident in fashionable life. Its inspiration is not of the 
grove, but the boudoir. It is not bright with the radiance 
of truth, but with the polish of art. It breathes not the 
fragrance of wild-flowers, but the fumes of tea. It dis- 
plays not the simple features of nature, but the parapher- 
nalia of the toilet. We know what the heroine wears and 
what she does, but must conjecture her peculiar senti- 
ments, and make out of the details of her dress and cir- 
cumstances, an idea of her character. 

On her white breast, a sparkling cross she wore, 
Which Jews might kiss and infidels adore. 



POPE. 79 

Faultless lines indeed, and they ring most harmonious- 
ly ; but the poet of feeling would have thrilled us with 
his description of Belinda's charms, and the poet of ima- 
gination would have carried us beneath both the cross and 
the bosom it adorned, to the young heart of the maiden, 
and made us ' leap on its pants triumphant,' Yet this 
poem is an extraordinary proof of Pope's fancy. He has 
invented a long story out of a single and not very inter- 
esting fact ; and he has told this tale in a language the most 
choice, and rhymes the most correct. The poem is like 
the fruits and flowers of precious stones set in the exqui- 
site pietra dura tables of Italy, — clear, fanciful, rarely 
combined, but unwarmed with any glow of nature ; and 
iDetter calculated to awaken admiration than excite sym- 
pathy. 

It is usual to speak of Pope as a poet of the past — 
one whose peculiarities have given place to a new order 
of things. B u t we have ever representatives of his school, 
both in literature and life. Men who have cultivated their 
manners to an elegant degree of plausibility, orators who 
have become masters of an engaging elocution, the 
grace of which wins us from criticism and reflection, 
poets who have perfectly learned how to versify, and have 
more sense than sensibility, more wit than enthusiasm, 
more fancy than imaginative power ; — such are legitimate 
disciples of Pope, They are useful, attractive, often de- 
lightful beings, and effect much in their way ; but humani- 
ty can be ' touched to finer issues' than these convention- 
al though brilliant accomplishments. The truthful as- 
pirant, the mind elevated by great views and aims, the 
spontaneous and overflowing soul — such spirits as Milton, 
Burns, Coleridge, and Lamb, awaken a profounder regard. 
The Essay on Man contains many truisms, a long array 
of common-place facts, and a few interesting truths. The 
theory it unfolds whether the poet's or borrowed, affords 



80 THOUGHTS ON THE POETS. 

little consolation to an ardent and sensitive mind. Pope 
cherished no very tender or comprehensive views of his 
race. His observation enabled him only to ' catch the 
manners living as they rise ;' and accordingly many of 
his couplets have passed into proverbs. He inquires 

' of God above, or man below. 
What can we reason, but from what we know ?' 

A curious query for a poet whose distinction it is to en- 
joy the insight of a generous imagination, and whose 
keen sympathies take him constantly from the narrow 
limits of the actual, soften the angles of mere logical per- 
ception, and ' round them with a sleep' — the sweet and 
dreamy repose of poetical reverie. Pope sings not of 

Hopes and fears that kindle hope, 
An undistinguishable throng, 
> , And gentle wishes long subdued. 
Subdued and cherished long. 

The Epistle to Abelard breathes, indeed, the tremulous 
faith of love, and paints, not uneffectively, the struggle of 
ihat passion in a vestal's heart, but the bard himself re- 
fers us to the original letter for the sentiment of the 
poem. Even the pious invocation of ' The Dying Chris- 
tian to his Soul,' was written with a view to other effu- 
sions of a similar nature. The Translations and Imita- 
tions of Pope, greatly outweigh his original pieces — a 
sufficient proof that poetry was to him more of an art 
than an impulse. The Iliad, however little it may credit 
his scholarship and fidelity to the original, is truly an 
extraordinary evidence of his facility in versifying, and 
of his patient industry. Pope's ideal lay almost wholly 
in language. He thought that 

' True expression like the unchanging sun, 
Clears and improves whate'er it shines upon, 
It gilds all objects, but it alters none,' 



POPE. 81 

To him we are mainly indebted for a new revelation 
of the capabilities of English heroic verse. He gave the 
most striking examples of his favourite theory, that 
' sound should seem an echo to the sense.' He carried 
out the improvement in diction which Dryden com- 
menced ; and while Addison was producing beautiful spe- 
cimens of reformed prose, Pope gave a polish and point 
to verse before unknown. When the vast number of his 
couplets are considered, their fastidious correctness is 
truly astonishing. How many examples occur to the 
memory of his correct and musical rhymes, ringing like 
the clear chimes of a favourite bell through a frosty at- 
mosphere ! How often do we forget the poverty of the 
thought — the familiarity of "the image — the triteness of 
the truths they convey, in the fascinating precision of the 
verse ! It becomes, indeed, wearisome at length from 
sameness ; and to be truly enjoyed must be only resorted 
to occasionally. The poetical diction of Pope resembles 
mosaic-work. His words, like the materials of that art, 
are fitted together with a marvellous nicety. The pic- 
tures formed are vivid, exact, and skilful. The consum- 
mate tact thus displayed charms the fancy, and suggests 
a degree of patient and tasteful labour which excites ad- 
miration. The best mosaic paintings have a fresh viva- 
city of hue, and a distinctness of outline, which gratifies 
the eye; but we yield a higher tribute to the less formal 
and more spiritual products of the pencil. And such is 
the distinction between Pope and more imaginative poets. 
The bright enamel of his rhymes, is like a frozen lake 
over which we glide, as a skater before the wind, sur- 
rounded by a glittering landscape of snow. There is a 
pleasing exhilaration in our course, but little glow of 
heart or exultation of soul. The poetry of a deeper and 
less artificial school is like that lake on a summer eve- 
ning, upon whose tide we float in a pleasure-boat, look- 



82 THOUGHTS ON THE POETS. 

ing upon the flowering banks, the warm sunset, and 
the coming forth of the stars. To appreciate justly the 
perfection to which Pope can'ied the heroic verse, it is 
only necessary to consider how few subsequent rhymers 
have equalled him. He created a standard in this de- 
partment which is not likely soon to be superseded. 
Other and less studied metres have since come into 
vogue, but this still occupies and must retain an impor- 
tant place. It is doubtless the best for an occasional 
poem intended for oral delivery. Few can manage the 
Spenserian stanza with effect, and blank verse often wea- 
ries an audience. There is a directness in the heroic 
metre admirably adapted for immediate impression. The 
thought is converged to bright sallies within its brief lim- 
its, and the quickly succeeding rhymes sweeten the sen- 
timent to the ear. Finely chosen words are very effec- 
tive in the heroic measure, and images have a striking 
reHevo. For bold appeal, and keen satire, this medium 
is unsurpassed ; and it is equally susceptible of touching 
melody. Witness Byron's description of the dead Me- 
dora, and Campbell's protest against scepticism. Rogers 
and our own Sprague have won their fairest laurels in 
heroic verse. With this school of poetry. Pope is wholly 
identified. He most signally exhibited its resources, and 
to him is justly ascribable the honour of having made it 
the occasion of refining the English language. He illus- 
trates the povirer of correctness — the effect of precision. 
His example has done much to put to shame careless 
habits of expression. He was a metrical essayist of ex- 
cellent sense, rare fancy, and bright wit. He is the 
apostle of legitimate rhyme, and one of the true masters 
of the art of verse. 



CO WPER. * 



In the gallery of the English poets, we linger with 
peculiar emotion before the portrait of Cowper. We 
think of him as a youth, ' giggling and making giggle ' at 
his uncle's house in London, and indulging an attach- 
ment destined to be sadly disappointed ; made wretched 
by the idea of a peculiar destiny ; transferred from a cir- 
cle of literary roysterers to the gloomy precincts of an 
Insane Asylum ; partially restored, yet shrinking from 
the responsibilities incident to his age : restless, undeci- 
ded, desponding even to suicidal wretchedness, and 
finally abandoning a world for the excitement and strug* 
gles of which he was wholly unfit. "VVe follow him into 
the bosom of a devoted family ; witness with admiration 
the facility he exhibits in deriving amusements from 
trifling employments — gathering every way-side flower 
even in the valley of despair, finding no comfort but in 
' self-deception,' and finding this in ' self-discipline.' We 
behold his singular re-appearance in the world in the ca- 
pacity of an author, — genius reviving the ties that mis- 
fortune had broken. We trace with delight his intellec- 
tual career in his charming correspondence with Hayley, 
Hill, and his cousin, the vividness of his affections in his 
poem to his mother's picture, the play of his fancy in 
John Gilpin, his reflective ingenuity in the Task. We 
recall the closing scene — the failing faculties of his faith- 



84 THOUGHTSONTHEPOETS. 

ful companion,^ his removal from endeared scenes, his 
sad walks by the sea-shore, his patient, but profound 
melancholy and peaceful death — with the solemn relief 
that ensues from the termination of a tragedy. And 
when we are told that an expression of " holy surprise'* 
settled on the face of the departed, we are tempted to ex- 
claim with honest. Kent — 

0, let him pass ! he hates him 

That would upon the rack of this rude world, 

Stretch him out longer. 

At an age when most of his countrymen are confirmed 
in prosaic habits, William Cowper sat down to versify. 
No darling theory of the art, no restless thirst for fame, 
no bardic frenzy prompted his devotion. He sought in 
poetic labour oblivion of consciousness. He strove to 
make a Lethe of the waters of Helicon. The gift of a 
beautiful mind was marred by an unhappy temperament ; 
the chords of a tender heart proved too delicate for the 
winds of life ; and the unfortunate youth became an in- 
tellectual hypochondriac. In early manhood, when the 
first cloud of insanity had dispersed, he took, as it were, 
monastic vows — and turned aside from the busy metrop- 
olis, where his career began, to seek the solace of rural 
retirement. There, the tasteful care of a conservatory, 
the exercise of mechanical ingenuity, repose, seclusion 
and kindness, gradually restored his spirit to calmness; 
and then the intellect demanded exercise, and this it 
found in the service of the muse. Few of her votaries 
afford a more touching instance of suffering than the bard 
of Olney. In the records of mental disease, his case has 
a melancholy prominence — not that it is wholly isolated, 

* Thy indistinct expressions seem 
Like language uttered in a dream, 
Yet me they charm, whate'er their theme. 

My Marj . 



C W P E R . 85 

but because the patient tells his own story, and hallows 
the memory of his griefs by uniform gentleness of soul 
and engaging graces of mind. To account for the 
misery of Cowper, is not so important as to receive and 
act upon the lesson it conveys. His history is an ever- 
eloquent appeal in behalf of those, whose delicate ^organ- 
ization and sensitive temper expose them to moral 
anguish. Whether his gloom is ascribable to a state of 
the brain as physiologists maintain, to the ministry of 
spirits as is argued by the Swedenborgians, or to the in- 
fluence of a creed as sectarians declare, is a matter of no 
comparative moment — since there is no doubt the germs 
of insanity existed in his very constitution. " I cannot 
bear much thinking," he says. " The meshes of the 
brain are composed of such mere spinner's threads in 
me, that when a long thought finds its way into them, it 
buzzes and twangs and bustles about at such a rate as 
seems to threaten the whole contexture." Recent dis- 
coveries have proved that there is more physiological 
truth in this remark, than the unhappy poet could ever 
have suspected. The ideas about which his despair 
gathered, were probably accidental. His melancholy 
naturally was referred to certain external causes, but its 
true origin is to be sought among the mysteries of o\ir 
nature. The avenues of joy were closed in his heart. 
He tells us, a sportive thought startled him. " It is as if 
a harlequin should intrude himself into the gloomy 
chamber where a corpse is deposited." In reading his 
productions, with a senee of his mental condition, what 
a mingling of human dignity and woe is present to the 
imagination ! A mind evolving the most rational and 
virtuous conceptions, yet itself the prey of absurd delu- 
sions ; a heart overflowmg with the truest sympathy for 
a sick hare, yet pained at the idea of the church-honours 
paid to Handel; a soul gratefully recognizing the be- 



86 THOUGHTS ON THE POETS. 

nignity of God, in the fresh verdure of the myrtle, and 
the mutua] attachment of doves, and yet incredulous of 
his care for its own eternal destiny ! What a striking 
incongruity between the thoughtful man, expatiating in 
graceful numbers upon the laws of Nature and the 
claims of Religion, and the poor mortal deferring to an 
ignorant school-master, and *' hunted by spiritual hounds 
in the night-season ;" the devout poet celebrating his 
Maker's glory, and the madman trembling at the wax- 
ing moon ; the affectionate friend, patient and devoted, 
and the timid devotee deprecating the displeasure of a 
clergyman, who reproved his limited and harmless plea- 
sures ! 

It has been objected to Hamlet, that the sportiveness 
of the prince mars the effect of his thoughtfulness. It is 
natural when the mind is haunted and oppressed by any 
painful idea which it is necessary to conceal, to seek re- 
lief, and at the same time increase the deception, by a 
kind of playfulness. This is exemplified in Cowper's 
letters. " Such thoughts," he says, " as pass through my 
head when I am not writing, make the subject of my let- 
ters to you." One overwhelming thought, however, was 
gliding like a dark, deep stream beneath the airy struc- 
tures he thus reared to keep his mind from being swept 
off by its gloomy current. To this end, he surrendered 
his pen to the most obvious pleasantry at hand, and dallied 
with the most casual thoughts of the moment, as Hamlet 
talks about the " old true-penny in the cellerage," when 
the idea of his father's spirit is weighing with awful mys- 
teriousness upon his heart, and amuses himself with joking 
Old Polonius, when the thought of filial revenge is sway- 
ing the very depths of his soul. Cowper speculates on 
baloons, moralizes on politics, chronicles the details of 
his home-experience, even to the accidents resulting from 
the use of a broken table, with the charming air of play- 



C OW P E R. 87 

fulness that marks the correspondence of a lively girl. 
How often are these letters the proofs of rare heroism ! 
How often were those flowers of fancy watered by a 
bleeding heart ! By what an effort of will was his mind 
turned from its forebodings, from the dread of his wretch- 
ed anniversary, from the one horrible idea that darkened 
his being, to the very trifles of common-life, the every-day 
circumstances which he knew so well how to array with 
fresh interest and agreeable combination ! Cowper's story 
indicates what a world of experience is contained in one 
solitary life. It lifts the veil from a single human bosom, 
and displays all the elements of suffering, adventure and 
peace, w^hich we are apt to think so dependant upon out- 
ward circumstances ! There is more to be learned from 
such a record than most histories afford. They relate 
things en masse, and battles, kings and courts pass before 
us, like mists along a mountain-range ; but in such a life 
as that of Cowper, we tremble at the capacity of woe in- 
volved in the possession of sensibility, and trace with awe 
and pit}- the mystery of a " mind diseased." The anato- 
my of the soul is, as it were, partially disclosed. Its con- 
flicting elements, its intensity of reflection, its marvellous 
action, fill us with a new and more tender reverence. Nor 
are the darker shades of this remarkable mental portrait 
unrelieved. To the reader of his life, Cowper's encounter 
with young Unwin, under the trees at Huntingdon, is as 
bright a gleam of destiny as that which visited his heart 
at Southampton. At the very outset of his acquaintance 
with this delightful family, he calls them " comfortable 
people." This term may seem rather humble compared 
with such epithets as ' brilliant,' ' gifted ' and ' interest- 
ing;' but to a refined mind it is full of significance. 
Would there were more comfortable people in the world ! 
Where there is rare talent in a companion, there is sel- 
dom repose. Enthusiasm is apt to make very uncom- 



88 THOUGHTS ON THE POETS. 

fortable demands upon our sympathies, and strong-sense 
is not infrequently accompanied by a dogmatical spirit. 
Erudite society is generally devoid of freshness, and 
poetical spirits have the reputation of egotism. How- 
ever improving such companions may be, to sensitive 
persons they are seldom comfortable. There is a silent 
influence in the mere presence of every one, which, 
whether animal magnetism be true or not, makes itself 
felt, unless the nerves are insensible ; and then there is 
a decided character in the voice and manner, as well as 
in the conversation. In comfortable people, all these are 
harmonized. The whole impression is cheering. We 
are at ease, and yet gratified ; we are soothed and happy. 
With such companionship was Cowper blessed in the 
Unwins. No ' stricken deer ' that ever left the herd of 
men, required such a solace more. We cannot wonder 
it proved a balm. The matronly figure of Mrs. Unwin 
and her ' sweet, serene face,' rise before the fancy as pic- 
tures of actual memory. We see her knitting beside the 
fire on a winter day, and Cowper writing opposite ; hear 
her friendly expostulation when he overtasked his mind, 
and see the smile with which she ' restored his fiddle,' 
when rest made it safe to resume the pen. We follow 
them with a gaze of affectionate respect as they walk at 
noon along the gravel- walk, and honour the maternal so- 
licitude that sustains her patient vigils beside the sick-bed 
of the bard. In imagination we trace her demeanor, as 
with true female tact she contrived to make the people 
regard her charge only with reverence. Like a star of 
peace and promise, beams the memory of this excellent 
woman upon Cowper's sad history; and Lady Hesketh 
and ' Sister Anne ' are the lesser, but still benignant lu- 
minaries of that troubled sky. Such glimpses of woman 
vindicate her true rights more than all the rhetoric of 
Mary Wolstonecraft. They prove her claim to higher 



CO WPER. aif 

respect than can attach to the trophies of valour or genius. 
They exliibit her in all the dignity of pure affection, in 
the discharge of duties and the exercise of sentiment 
more exalted than the statesman or soldier can ever boast. 
They throw around 6lney more sacred associations than 
those which consecrate Vaucluse. Not to a selfish pas- 
sion, not to ambitious display, not to petty triumphs did 
these women minister, but to a kindred nature whose 
self-sustaining energies had been weakened, to a rare 
spirit bereft of a hope, to a noble heart over-shadowed 
by despair. It was an office worthy of angels ; and even 
on earth was it thus fulfilled. 

It is not surprising that Byron denied to Cowper the 
title of poet. To an impassioned imagination, the tone 
of his writings cannot but appear subdued even to abso- 
lute tameness. There are, however, in his poems flights 
of fancy, fine comparisons and beautiful descriptive sketch- 
es enough to quicken and impart singular interest to the 
* still life' so congenial to his muse. He compared her 
array not inaptly to a quaker-costume. Verse was delib- 
erately adopted by Cowper at a mature age, as a medium 
of usefulness. His poetry is not therefore the overflowing 
of youthful feeling, and his good judgment probably warn- 
ed him to avoid exciting themes, even had his inclination 
tended in that direction. He became a lay-preacher in 
numbers. His object was to improve men, not like the 
bard of Avon by powerfully unfolding their passions, nor 
like Pope by pure satire ; but rather through the quiet 
teachings of a moralist. He discourses upon hunting, 
cards, the abuses of the clerical profession and other pre- 
vailing follies, like a man who is convinced of the vanity 
of worldly pleasure and anxious to dispel its allusions from 
other minds. His strain is generally characterized by 
good sense, occasionally enlivened by quiet humour, and 
frequently exhibits uncommon beauties of style and image 
6 



90 THOUGHTS ON THE POETS. 

ry. It is almost invariably calm. Moral indignation is 
perhaps the only very warm sentiment with which it 
glows. It may be questioned whether Cowper's previous 
experience was the best adapted to educate a reformer. 
He was a member of a society of wits, called the ' Non- 
sense Club ;' and from what we can learn of his associates, 
it is highly probable that the moderate pursuit of pleasure 
was a spectacle very unfamiliar to his youth. Hence, 
perhaps, the severe light in which he viewed society, and 
the narrow system upon which he judged mankind. 

' Truths that the theorist could never reach. 
And observation taught me I w^ould teach.' 

It is obvious that the poet's observation was remarka- 
bly nice and true in certain departments of life, but his 
early diffidence, few companions and retiring habits must 
have rendered his views of social characteristics, partial 
and imperfect. His pictures of spiritual pride and cleri- 
cal foppery are indeed life-like, but prejudice blinded him 
to many of the redeeming traits of human nature, and the 
habit of judging all men by the mere light of his own 
consciousness prevented him from realizing many of their 
real wants, and best instincts. His notions on the sub- 
ject of music, the drama, life in cities, and some other 
subjects, were one-sided and unphilosophical. He gene- 
rally unfolds the truth, but it is not always the whole 
truth. There is, too, a poetic remedy for human error, 
that his melancholy temper forbade his applying. It is 
derived from the religion of hope, faith in man — the ge- 
nial optimism which some later bards have delightfully 
advocated. To direct men's thoughts to the redeeming 
aspects of life, to celebrate the sunshine and the flower 
as types of Eternal goodness and symbols of human joy, 
to lead forth the sated reveller and make him feel the 
glory of the stars and the freshness of the breeze, to 
breathe into the ear of toil the melodies of evening, to 



CO WPER. 91 

cliarm the votary of fashion by endearing portraitures of 
humble virtue — these have been found moral specifics, 
superior to formal expostulation or direct appeal. Cow- 
per doubtless exerted a happy influence upon his contem- 
poraries, and there is an order of minds to which his 
teachings are peculiarly adapted. He speaks from the 
contemplative air of rural retirement. He went thither 
*' to muse on the perishing pleasures of life," to prove 
that 

The only amaranthine flower on earth, 

Is Virtue ; the only lasting treasure, Truth. 

In favour of these principles he addressed his country- 
men, and the strain was worthier than any that had long 
struck their ears. Gradually it found a response, con- 
firmed the right intentions of lowly hearts, and carried 
conviction to many a thoughtful youth. There was lit- 
tle, however, in this improved poetry, of the " richest 
music of humanity," or of the electrifying cheerfulness 
of true inspiration, and hence, much ofit has lost its in- 
terest, and the bard of Olney is known chiefly by a few 
characteristic gems of moral meditation and graphic por- 
traiture. Our obligations, then, to Cowper as a teacher, 
are comparatively limited. . He was conscious of a good 
design, and felt himself a sincere advocate. 

* But nobler yet, and nearer to the skies. 
To feel one's self in hours serene and still, 
One of the spirits chosen by Heaven to turn 
The sunny side of things to human eyes.' 

The most truly poetic phases of Cowper's verse, are 
the portions devoted to rural and domestic subjects. Here 
he was at home and alive to every impression. His dis- 
position was of that retiring kind that shrinks from the 
world, and is free and at ease only in seclusion. To 
exhibit himself, he tells us, was * mortal poison ;' and his 
favourite image to represent his own condition, was drawn 



92 THOUGHTS ON THE POETS. 

from the touching instinct which leads a wounded deer 
to quit the herd and withdraw into lonely shades to die. 
He desired no nearer view of the world than he could 
gain from the ' busy map of life' — a newspaper ; or 
through the ' loop-holes of retreat, to see the stir of the 
great Babel and not feel the crowd.' I knew a lady 
whose feelings, in this respect, strongly resembled those ot 
Cowper, who assured me, she often wished herself pro- 
vided like a snail, that she might peep out securely from 
her shell, and withdraw in a moment from a stranger's 
gaze behind an impenetrable shield. Such beings find 
their chief happiness in the sacred privacy of home. 
They leave every public shrine to keep a constant' vigil 
at the domestic altar. There burns without ceasing, the 
fire of their devotion. They turn from the idols of fash- 
ion to worship their household gods. The fire-side, the 
accustomed window^ the familiar garden bound their 
desires. To happy domestic influences Cowper owed all 
the peace of mind he enjoyed. He eulogized the blessing 
with grateful sincerity. 

friendly to the best pursuits of man. 
Friendly to thought, to virtue and to peace, 
Domestic life in rural leisure passed ! 

"Constant occupation without care," was his ideal of 
existence. Even winter was endeared by its home-en- 
joyments : 

1 crown thee king of intimate delights 
Fire-side enjoyments, home-born happiness. 

It was here that the poet struck a responsive chord in the 
hearts of his countrymen. He sang of the sofa — a me- 
morial of English comfort ; of home, the castle of English 
happiness and independence ; — of the newspaper — the 
morning and evening pastime of Enghshmen ; — of the 
' hissing urn' and ' the cups thgt cheer, but not inebriate' — 
the peculiar luxury of his native land ; — of the ' parlour 



C "W P E R . 93 

twilight,' the * winter evening,' the * noon-day walk' — all 
subjects consecrated by national associations. Goldsmith 
and Thomson are the poets of rural life, and Cowper 
completes the charming triumvirate. The latter's love 
of the country was absolute. 

I never framed a wish, or formed a plan. 
That flattered me with hopes of earthly bliss. 
But there I laid the scene. 

His description of the pursuits of horticulture, winter 
landscapes, and rustic pleasures, eloquently betray this 
peculiar fondness for the scenery and habits of rural life. 
Many of these pictures are unique, and constitute Cow- 
per's best title to poetic fame. 



THOMSON 



Happiness is considered by many philosophers as 
chiefly dependant upon constitution. There is certainly 
a vast difference in the susceptibility to enjoyment among 
men, and none the less as regards their capacity of en- 
durance. An easy temperament — a mind endowed with 
luxurious tastes, yet undisturbed by intense desire, will 
be sure of gratification when free from physical suffer- 
ing, and within reach of its favourite objects;; while 
an ambitious and restless disposition, pines in the midst 
of plenty. When an amiable heart is united to ample 
mental resources, good health and a contented spirit, a 
certain quiet Epicurism is the result which renders life 
prolific of pleasure. Men thus organized and endowed, 
are happy until actually deprived of their blessings. 
They feel little concern for the future ; habitually disre- 
gard the painful associations of the past, and cordially 
improve the present. They contrive to maintain a per- 
petual truce with care. Their equanimity is not ruffled 
by passion. Their peace is seldom invaded by anxiety. 
Physically healthy, the brain operates serenely ; optimists 
by nature, hope balances apprehension, and the heart pre- 
serves a complacent self-possession. Such men never 
have a " lean and hungry look." They " hear music," 
relish good viands, and extol gratitude as a cardinal 
virtue. Longings waste not their energies ; ardtent 
hopes win not their attention from the immediate. Tliey 



THOMSON. 95 

are prompt on all pleasurable occasions. Fervid antici- 
pation mars not to them reality. Irritating regret chains 
them not to departed joys. Life has momently a fresh 
interest. They go with the stream, and take things as 
they come, ever contriving to see a rainbow in the midst 
of the storm. Such men grow fat- They are most 
pleasing companions. They put us at ease and in good 
humour with the world. They will not quarrel, and are 
seldom vexed. No fever of philanthropy, no mania of 
politics, no pressure of affairs, can permanently excite 
them. They are all for the calm, the sequestered, the 
tasteful, the luxurious. They smile at the writhing of 
the passionate, and pity . the eager crowd. The world 
calls them lazy, and they are not anxious to discredit the 
title. In literature, such men form the exception, not the 
rule. The pursuit of letters is too often joined with 
morbid vanity and insatiable ambition. Were it not for 
an occasional example of the Epicurean letterato, the pro- 
fession might be deemed incompatible with happiness. 
Where the " elements are so mixed" in the man as to 
promote the poet's felicity, few human beings derive from 
existence, higher and more constant satisfaction. The 
muse to these souls comes with little courting. Study is 
but infrequently a toil. Such spirits wait for good 
rather than seek it ; above ail, they appropriate it, and, 
unless fortune is strangely perverse, obtain and actualize 
more than an average share. 

Of this species was James Thomson. When he first 
went up to London with " Winter" as a capital, while en- 
joying the view of city novelties, he suffered his intro- 
ductory letters to be purloined. He was unadroit, a poor 
horseman, and a bad reader. The affections once con- 
centrated upon Amanda, were disperssd among his 
friends and family ; but he was a celibate rather from 
Decessity than choice. 



96 THOUGHTS ON THE POETS. 

A literary lady invited him to pass the summer at her 
country-seat, but instead of flattering her intellectual 
propensity by sage conversation, he preferred to sip wine 
with her husband, and so lost the favour of a Countess. 
He was once seen to bite out the sunny side of a peach 
with his hands in his pockets. A lover of music, he did 
not fatigue himself with blowing a flute or flourishing a 
fiddle-bow, but kept an ^olian harp in his window, and 
listened to the nightingales. 

Lend me your song, ye nightingales ! oh pour 
The mazy running soul of melody 
Into my varied verse. 

He courted the great for patronage, rather than seek 
" toilsome gains" by the industrious exercise of his pow- 
ers. He neglected his private concerns, until want or 
friendship goaded him to exertion. He mused pleasantly 
when alone, sat silent in large companies, and let the 
current of his soul flow freely among his intimate com- 
panions. He composed chiefly at night, when social 
allurements did not interfere with his meditations. To 
him might well apply what was said of a similar charac- 
ter — " Give him his leg of mutton and bottle of wine, and, 
in the very thick of calamity, he would be happy for the 
time being." He speaks of the " godlike wisdom of the 
tempered breast," and remarks — " to have always some 
secret, darling idea, to which one can still have recourse, 
amidst the noise and nonsense of the world, and which 
never fails to touch us in the most exquisite manner, is 
an art of happiness that fortune cannot deprive us of." 

The very diction of Thomson breathes a kind of luxu- 
rious serenity. The opening stanzas of the Castle of In- 
dolence present a scene of dreamy repose, which soothes 
and wins the fancy like an Eastern tale. 



THOMSON. 97 

Here naught but candour reigns, indulgent ease, 
Good-natur'd lounging, sauntering up and down : 

They who are pleased themselves must always please; 
On other's ways they never squint or frown. 
Nor heed what haps in hamlet or in town. 
****** 

What, what is virtue, but repose of mind, 

A pure ethereal calm, that knows no storm ; 
Above the reach of wild ambition's wind, 
"■ Above those passions that this world deform ? 

The following is a friend's description of Thomson, in- 
serted in his own poem : 

A bard here dwelt, more fat than bard beseems, 
Who void of envy, guile, and lust of gain. 

On virtue still, and Nature's pleasing themes, 
Poured forth his unpremeditated strain : 

The world forsaking with a calm disdain, 
Here laugh'd he careless in his easy seat ; 

Here quaffed encircled with the joyous train, 
Oft moralizing sage; his ditty sweet. 
He loathed much to write, he cared not to repeat. 

The blank-verse of the " Seasons" has none of the 
lofty effort of Milton, nor the passionate force so common 
in Shakspere. It is flowing and free. We perceive, 
indeed, a careful selection of words, and are sometimes 
conscious of a studied construction. But, generally- 
speaking, the language of Thomson is diffuse. His 
native idleness tinctures his poetic style. Perhaps its 
peculiar charm consists in the facility and unfettered 
course of the rhythm. One reason, however, of the 
vagueness of the impression we derive from his poetry, 
is the prolixity of the language. Several times in the 
course of this poem, occurs the word "amusive" — aji 
epithet which admirably serves to designate the charac- 
ter of Thomson's verse. 

Although, for the most part, the bard of the " Sea- 
sons," was a passive recipient of poetical influences, 
6^ 



98 THOUGHTS ON THE POETS. 

rather than a devoted worshipper and enthusiastic stu- 
dent, let us fully recognize the worth of such poetry. 
There is a meditative interest and quiet morality inter- 
woven with its pictures. In accordance with his cast of 
mind, Thomson deemed secluded ease infinitely prefera- 
ble to the " weary labyrinth of state," or the " smooth 
barbarity of courts." His essentials of happiness were 

An elegant sufficiency, content, 

Retirement, rural quiet, friendship, books, , 

Ease and alternate labour, useful life, 

Progressive virtue, and approving Heaven. 

And with genuine poetic pride, he sings : 
I care not Fortune what you me deny, 

You cannot rob me of free Nature's grace ; 
You cannot shut the windows of the sky, 

Through which Aurora shows her brightening face j 
You cannot bar my constant feet to trace. 

The woods or lawn, by living stream at eve; 
Let health my nerves and finer fibres brace, 

And I their toys to the great children leave : 

Of fancy, reason, virtue nought can me bereave. 

The tragedies and several minor efforts of Thomson 
are now quite neglected ; and he is remembered by two 
poems only. The reflective portions of these works are 
unquestionable as regards the principles and niotives in- 
culcated. There is often a pure vein of devotion and 
patriotic feeling, which imparts the most pleasing impres- 
sion of the poet's views and character, and sufficiently ac- 
counts for the warm personal estimation in which he was 
held. 

The " Seasons" ranks high in English poetry, chiefly 
from its descriptive fidelity. If an inhabitant of this 
planet were suddenly transferred to another sphere where 
an entirely different order of things prevailed, this poem 
would forever preserve to his mind a vivid picture of the 
earth, he has quitted. Thomson seems to have proceeded 
most conscientiously in his genial task. He has indited an 



THOMSON. 99 

artist-like and correct nomenclature of the phenomena of 
Nature. For the most part the " Seasons" is a narrative 
of physical facts, familiar to every one. This explains 
the attractiveness of the poem. We are ever delighted 
with a true representation of whatever interests us. It 
requires an introspective mind to appreciate the grand 
portraitures of human passion and experience ; but the 
graphic delineation of sensible objects appeals to univer- 
sal observation. Hence the popularity of Thomson. He 
has faithfully traced the various changes consequent upon 
the varying Year. The alternate vocations of husbandry, 
the successive sports which beguile the monotony of coun- 
try life, the drought and the freshet, the snow-storm and 
the spring morning, the midsummer noon and the winter 
night, have found in him a graceful chronicler. His 
pages recall at once and with singular life the associations 
of the Seasons. Beyond this, they have no very strong 
hold upon the feelings'. We derive from them few pow- 
erful impressions. Their influence is pleasing, but vague. 
There is a remarkable repose in the strain. It is more 
like the agreeable lassitude of a summer afternoon, than 
the clear excitement of an autumn morning. The taste- 
ful diction is often cold ; and were it not for the digres- 
sions which the poet makes to express occasionally some 
cherished feeling, we should often find him rather tame 
and business-like. But the amiable and excellent senti- 
ments he displays, the overflowing kindness of his heart, 
and the pensive morality scattered among his descriptions, 
serve to enliven them with something of a personal, ten- 
der and attractive hue. 

I cannot go 
Where universal Love smiles not around, 
Sustaining all yon orbs and all their sons ; 
From seeming evil still educing good; 
And better thence again, and better still 
In infinite progression. 



100 



THOUGHTS ON THE POETS. 



The scholar, the friend and the idle dreamer, appear 
as conspicuously as the bard. The very familiarity of 
the scenes and circumstances, to which the poem is de- 
voted, is attractive. It is worthy of note, that we are as 
easily interested by what is exceedingly familiar, as by 
the novel and extraordinary. 'If a writer does not " o'er- 
step the modesty of nature," we like him all the better 
for treating of what is very near to us. The curiosity of 
the multitude is not extensive. The most universal sym- 
pathy is that devoted to what is adjacent. Cervantes rose 
to fame by describing the manners of his own country. 
There are hundreds who follow Thomson with delight 
over the every-day scenes of the earth, to one who soars 
with Milton beyond its confines. Hence it has been said 
that " the Seasons look best a little torn and dog's-eared;" 
and a man of genius who saw a copy in this condition on 
the window-seat of an ale-house, exclaimed — " this is 
fame !" Paul Jones was a devoted lover of this poem. 
What a contrast must its peaceful beauty have presented 
to the scenes of violence and danger in which he de- 
lighted ! 

The varying popularity of celebrated works is to be 
accounted for principally by their distance or vicinity to 
the associations of each age. We sometimes yawn over 
Ariosto's battles and knights, while we are often kindled 
and charmed by Childe Harold. Chivalric enterprises 
belong to the past ; but a tour through Switzerland and 
Italy, is among the common achievements of the day. 
And thus Thomson is indebted to his faithful pictures of 
Nature's annual decay and renovation, for his continued 
estimation as a poet. 

" Remembrance oft shall haunt the shore, 
When Thames in summer-wreaths is drest. 
And oft suspend the dripping oar, 
To bid his gentle spirit rest." 



YOUNG 



The associations connected with Young, are quite 
incongruous. His very name is out of place as applied 
to his productions ; it would be difficult to discover an 
equal quantity of verse less coloured and warmed by gen- 
uine youthful feeling. We can hardly realize that 
Young was ever young. Where, we are ready to ask, 
is that confidence in good, that buoyant hope, that ardent 
recognition of the true delights of being, which throw 
such a charm around the effusions of youth ? 

Nor does the discrepancy end here. Two of the best 
known anecdotes of Young, are in direct contradiction to 
the spirit of his muse. The first is that gallant reply to 
two ladies, who forced him to leave them in a garden, to 
receive a visitor : 

Thus Adam looked when from the garden driven. 
And thus disputed orders sent from Heaven ; 
Like him I go ; but yet to go am loth, 
Like him I go, for angels drove us both ; 
Hard was his fate, but mine still more unkind. 
His Eve went with him but mine stays behind. 

The other incident occurred while he was with a gay 
party in a pleasure-boat. A gentleman rather pertina- 
ciously insisted that he should play on his flute, and to 
revenge himself, Young is said to have challenged him, 
and then with a pistol aimed at his head, forced him to 
dance a hornpipe by way of retaliation. 



102 THOUGHTS ON THE POETS. 

Other poets have sung with spontaneous joy of the 
loveliness of earth and the sweetness of affection, and 
seem to have found in their fresh hearts, an antidote for 
outward evil. This man gathers up the shadows, and 
seldom inweaves amid them, either sunbeams or starlight. 
Other bards have first struck the lyre to celebrate the 
merits of one beloved, or reflect scenes of natural beauty ; 
this one, chose for his first theme, " The Last Day." 
Life, with its mysterious experience, its stirring inci- 
dents, its warm hopes and lofty aspirations, has inspired ■ 
the early efforts of most poets ; but to Young, death was 
a subject more congenial and attractive. The burden of 
his lays is contempt of earthly grandeur, and yet he 
sought preferment all his life. His poems advocate a 
competency, as the only just desire of a reasonable being, 
in this world ; but he has left behind him a reputation 
for parsimony. No one has set forth in stronger lan- 
guage the dangers of social life ; yet in his retire- 
ment, the gloomy bard pined at the world's neglect, and 
welcomed every stray visitor, in such a manner as to 
belie his recorded opinions of human nature. He coun- 
selled Lorenzo in strains of solemn warning, against 
Court subserviency ; while every book of the poem is 
dedicated to some noble friend, and the «age counsellor 
was indebted to patronage for his chief privileges, and 
would fain have increased the obligations ! 

The true office of the minstrel is to cheer. We do not 
turn to poetry to aggravate, bat to lighten the sorrows of 
our lot. Its office should be consoling. The genuine 
poet is an optimist. He instinctively seizes the redeem- 
ing feature in a landscape, a circumstance or a face. He 
fondly dwells on better moments. He loves to reconcile 
man to life. The blessing and not the bane, gives excite- 
ment to his thoughts. Indeed, what the phrenologists 
call ideality, appears to be a quality beneficently provided, 



T T7 N G . 103 

for the very purpose of meliorating the aspects of exis- 
tence to the consciousness of man. Hence the uncloud- 
ed brightness of many a reminiscence, and the joyous 
excitement of many a hope. Hence those blended pic- 
tures which sometimes rise to the fancy, in which the 
shades of life only serve to illustrate its sunny portions. 
Poetry should not haunt the unwholesome mine, unless 
with a safety-lamp of sunshine. It is her vocation to 
collect ta a focus, the scattered rays of happiness ; to gath- 
er the flowers in our path, and twine them into wreaths 
to deck the brow of care ; to lead us beside waters that 
" go softly," and not to the barren shores of the Dead 
Sea ; to lift our gaze to the mountains and the stars ; 
and waft to our ears, " the music of humanity," ra- 
ther than her groans. Let every man beware how he 
gives expression in verse or prose, to morbid feeling. 
Let him suffer in silence. If he have nothing hopeful 
to communicate, let him hold his peace. We see and 
hear and feel enough of gloomy import, for all purposes 
of discipline. If any one strike the lyre, we pray it be to 
a strain which shall elevate us above " the smoke and stir 
of this dim spot." Let the problem of human suffering 
be approached only by those, who carry balm for the 
wounded, and solace for the mourner. 

Young did not thus regard the art he cultivated. His 
early life is said to have been rather unprincipled. Per- 
haps be drank so intemperately of the cup of pleasure 
while a youth, that little but the dregs remained for after 
life. Certain it is, that he took no little satisfaction in 
setting forth the miseries of life in gloomy array ; and 
no discriminating mind can fail to perceive, that the 
" Complaint" is infinitely more effective than the " Conso- 
lation." The former appears to have been written con 
amore ; the latter has a forced and formal air. As a 
picture of life, Young's Night Thoughts are partial and 



104 THOUGHTS ON THE POETS. 

morbid. Their poetry, however, consists in so melancholy 
a concatenation of ideas, as occasionally to afford a sublime 
sensation. We can readily believe, that the bard was 
accustomed to write by the light of a candle stuck in a 
human skull. This species of poetic sadness has a 
foundation in our nature. At certain periods, every man 
of a reflective cast and strong imagination, takes a kind 
of melancholy pleasure in musing among the tombs, 
confronting the effigies of mortality, and giving his 
thoughts free range amid the associations of death. — 
Tn Egypt, we are told, sepulchral monuments often outvie 
the dwellings of the living, both in number and magnifi- 
cence ; and we can easily fancy the sad interest of the 
traveller as he marks the sculptured tombs, and hears, 
along the banks of the solemn Nile, the wailing over an 
Arab's corpse. But there is a limit, beyond which, such 
contemplations transcend the bounds both of true poetry 
and healthful moral impression. No one can discover 
any superior sanctity among the Capuchins of Italy, 
because of their vigils in catacombs, or of their familiar- 
ity with the ghastly remains of their departed brethren. 
And it is precisely here that Young has " o'erstepped the 
modesty of nature." His portraiture of death and hu- 
man ills, is too unrelieved for wholesome effect. To 
realize how uniform are his notes of woe, let any one 
read, or attempt to read, the Night Thoughts, consecu- 
tively. There are powerful passages, ingenious figures, 
terse and vivid expressions ; and, in certain moods, frag- 
ments of this elaborate poem, cannot but afford pleasure 
and awaken admiration. 

There is a very striking metaphor comparing pleasure 
to quicksilver ; and the following are fair examples of 
his impressive figures: 

" — hearts wounded, like the wounded air, 

Soon close ; where passed the shaft, no trace is found. 



YOUNG. 105 

As from the wing no stain the sky retains ; 
The parted wave no furrow from the keel ; 
So dies, in human hearts, the thought of death. 

Like birds, whose beauties languish half-concealed, 
Till mounted on the wing, their glossy plumes 
Expanded, shine with azure, green and gold; 
So blessings brighten as they take their flight. 

The nameless He whose nod is nature's birth, 
And nature's shield the shadow of his hand ; 
Her dissolution, his suspended smile. 

But as a whole, as a book to grow familiar with, it is 
in no small degree false to the true ends of poetry. The 
morality is too often little better than mere prudence. 
One of his arguments for piety is, " 'tis highly prudent 
to make one sure friend." His personification is fre- 
quently bombastic. His language sometimes becomes 
common-place and turgid ; and we are obliged to confess 
that in this, as in almost all other long poems, the de- 
sign is too extended, and the real gold beaten out to an 
extent perfectly unwarrantable. The first books are un- 
doubtedly the best. They were inspired by personal 
grief, and therefore have a force and effect, which gradu- 
ally disappear as we proceed. From a poet, the mourner 
became a theologian, a croaker, a reasoner, and a prosy 
sermonizer. There are leagues of desert, and only here 
and there an oasis. In portraying his domestic afflic- 
tions, Young is truly eloquent, and we feel with him and 
for him. In estimating life, satirizing the love of fame 
or of pleasure, and decrying the world, there is something 
too professional, laboured and partial in his style, to pro- 
duce effect. We involuntarily think of the disappointed 
churchman, and fancy that, in his dreams, whatever were 
his night-thoughts. Queen Mab visited him with visions 
of " another benefice." There are some clever lines in 
his satires. His tragedy — " The Revenge." has been 



106 THOUGHTS ON THE POETS. 

famous, but the reader is so constantly reminded of Othel- 
lo, that its merits are quite lost in the associations of 
that sublime drama. 

I remember stopping at a book-stall in Florence, in 
company with a young Italian of strong poetical sympa- 
thies. He pointed, with a visible shudder, to a transla- 
tion of " Young's Night Thoughts," and asked me, who 
out a Briton could ever read that epitome of English 
gloom. The idea of this poem being read at a dinner, or 
m the garden of a villa, to a party of ladies and knights, 
after the manner of Tasso and Ariosto, is certainly amus- 
ing. Yet there is a peculiar charm to Northern imagina- 
tions, in some of Young's dark pencillings. The peo- 
ple of high latitudes, are subject to moods of reflection in 
which such serious recognition of sad truths is genial, and 
even fascinating; and at such moments, they prefer Ec- 
clesiastes to Solomon's Song — the dark grove of pines to 
the bower of vine-leaves, and Dr. Young to Thomas 
Moore. Accordingly, many lines of the former have 
passed into proverbs ; and among the good dames and 
thoughtful gentlemen of the past generation, a well- 
thumbed' copy of the Night Thoughts often attested the 
veneration they inspired. The point of just sympathy 
with our author is, however, confined to his personal af- 
flictions. We recognize the excellence of Narcissa, who 
" sparkled, was exhaled, and went to heaven," and fol- 
low the poet with tender reverence, as he bears her body, 
to that solitary garden in Montpelier, where with " pious 
sacrilege a grave he stole." We echo the touching in- 
quiry which so many hearts have addressed to Death ; — 
Insatiate archer ! could not one suffice ? 

It is only when Young elaborates his theme, and at- 
tempts to throw a pall over the universe, to collect the 
shadows of life into a portentous array, to brood over 
and magnify evil, that we feel that his influence is un- 



YOUNG. 107 

grateful, and perceive that spleen, rather than philosophy 
guides his pen. Let us bring together a few of his 
gloomy truisms, and see if their contemplation be calcu- 
lated to make our actual lot any happier and more im- 
proving : 

sleep — 

Svdft on her downy pinions flies from woe, 
And lights on lids unsullied with a tear. 

All on earth is shadow, all beyond 
Is substance. 

The spider's most attenuated thread 
Is cord, is cable, to man's slender tie 
On earthly bliss. 

War, famine, pest, volcano, storm and fire. 
Intestine broils, oppression, with her heart 
Wrapt up in triple brass, besiege mankind. 

Our very wishes give us not our wish. 

The smoothest course of Xature has its pain, 
And truest friends, through error, wound our rest. 

Loud sorrows howl, envenomed passions bite, 
Ravenous calamities our vitals seize. 

At thirty, man suspects himself a fool ; 
Elnows it at forty, and reforms his plan. 

Life is war. 
Eternal war with woe. 

Fresh hopes are homiy sown 
In furrowed brows. 

How swift the shuttle flies that weaves thy shroud ' 

Fondness for fame is avarice of air. 

Death loves a shining mark. 

There's not a day. but, to the man of thought 
Betrays some secret, that throws new reproach 
Ou life, and makes him sick of seeing man. 



108 THOUGHTS ON THE POETS. 

Doubtless there is more or less truth in these and a 
thousand other similar phrases of Young ; but let it be 
remembered, that they are not the whole truth ; and if 
they were, the truth is not to be spoken at all times. If 
the courteous and Christian, though worldly-minded doc- 
tor, had imbibed a more cheerful theology; if he had 
walked less in grave-yards and more among his fellow- 
creatures; if an expansive benevolence and a sunny tem- 
per had made him more alive to the good, the beautiful 
and the true, he would have suffered some misgivings, in 
thus libelling this poor world, and exaggerating the trials 
of life. Instead of lamenting our " short correspondence 
with the sun," he would have rejoiced in its beams while 
he could. Instead of declaring the " clime of human life 
inclement," he would have done his best to warm it with 
the glow of social sympathy and cheerful gratitude. In- 
stead of finding " human happiness" a " sad sight," he 
would have been exhilarated at its presence, however 
transient ; and felt thankful, that, with all their troubles, 
it is still given to frail mortals, 

" To drink the golden spirit of the day. 
And triumph in existence." 

Young's command of language is remarkable, and 
many of his comparisons ingenious. We are surprised to 
encounter in the midst of some of his loftiest flights, an 
image borrowed from familiar and common life. Per- 
haps it is this mingling of the well-known and the lofty, 
that^ makes him a favourite with a certain class of read- 
ers. To this attraction must be added his evangelical 
character and the religious tone he assumes, which in- 
vest his poems with no little authority, in the view of 
those who profess similar tenets. But while in justice 
we allow him occasional felicity and impressiveness of 
thought and grandeur of style, we cannot but agree with 
Dr. Johnson, that it is very difficult to as^sign any general 



YOUNG. 109 

character to him as a poet. He has no fair claim to be 
considered emphatically the minstrel of the tomb, or the 
bard of sorrow. The mournful aspects of human life and 
destiny can be set forth in a far nobler manner. Around 
the memories of the departed, poetry has scattered far 
richer flowers than can be found in the Night Thoughts. 
The sorrows of humanity have been sung in sweeter 
strains. Lessons of courage and hope, emotions of pa- 
tient tenderness, sentiments of magnanimity and trust 
have been inspired, when bards of more simplicity and 
love have struck the lyre. Poetry can make even the 
thought of death beautiful, and the sadness of bereave- 
ment not without a certain pleasure. Great poets have 
elicited from the sternest suffering, a principle of enjoy- 
ment. Sublime faith and earnest love can conjure spirits 
the most lovely from the darkest abyss. By exhibiting 
human energy in conflict with adversity, by giving free 
scope to the eloquence of sorrow, by invoking the spirit 
of hope, the muse often weaves a rainbow over the valley 
of tears. Who pities Hamlet ? Who does not recog- 
nize a profound interest in the workings of his delicate 
soul, surpassing and illuming the darkness of his lot? 
Who is not soothed instead of saddened by true elegiac 
poetry — the tender strams, for instance, of such a bard as 
Hervey ? Night, even to the mourner, brings not, ever 
or often, such unalloyed bitterness as Young portrays. 
To Schiller and Thomson it was the brightest season. To 
the genuine poetical soul its silence and shadows, its 
moaning breeze and countless stars, its mystery and beau- 
tiful repose, bring a solemn happiness. We may, in- 
deed, then " keep assignation with our woe ;" but in such 
peaceful and lovely hours, how often does anguish melt 
in tears and wild grief become sad musing! How often 
by some invisible influence, do we grow reconciled and 
hopeful ' How often do *' stars look down as they were 



110 THOUGHTS ON THE POETS. 

angel's eyes I" Many of the sentiments, and most of the 
spirit of Young's Night Thoughts, is false to the true in- 
spiration and the holy effulgence of that sacred season. 
To one of our own poets it has spoken in a higher and 
more blessed strain. He makes us feel that there are 
" Voices of the Night" which cheer, elevate, and console : 

holy night ! from thee I learn to bear 

What man has borne before ! 
Thou layest thy finger on the lips of Care, 

And they complain no more. 

Then the forms of the departed 

Enter at the open door ; 
The beloved, the true-hearted. 

Come to visit me once more. 

0, though oft depressed and lonely. 

All my fears are laid aside. 
If I but remember only 

Such as these have lived and died. 

The star of the unconquered will. 

He rises in my breast, 
Serene, and resolute, and still, 

And calm, and self-possessed. 

O fear not, in a world like this. 

And thou shalt know ere long, 
Know, how sublime a thing it is 

To suffer and be strong. 



ALFIERI. 



Perhaps there is no character in modern literary his- 
tory who so strikingly illustrates the power of will as 
Victor Aliieri. Irresolution is one of the most common 
infirmities of poetic genius. In practical pursuits firm- 
ness of purpose is so essential to success that the want of 
it very soon leads to fatal consequences. Intellectual 
effort, on the contrary, is so much more dependant for its 
power and felicity upon peculiar moods of feeling and 
combinations of circumstances, that we scarcely expect a 
continuous regularity in its exercise. Hence we speak of 
a writer's happy moments, of being in the vein for a par- 
ticular subject, and of the ebb and flow of that mysteri- 
ous tide of inspiration which bears into light the crea- 
tions of thought. Imaginative men are confessedly more 
variable, capricious, and undeterminate than others. 
Their memoirs usually exhibit the utmost want of method 
and continuity as regards the time and progress of their 
labours. Individuals of strong sense and calm tempera- 
ment can discern no lavv^ governing the mental existence 
of poetical beings. There is so much that is apparently 
wayward and disorderly in the application of their gifts, 
that ill success in life is proverbially their lot, and com- 
mon prejudice deems all genius erratic. Probably no 
single fact relative to Scott has excited greater surprise 
than his habitual and regular industry. Social and local 
influences, personal circumstances, the state of the health, 



112 AL FIERI. 

and even of the weather — and far more, the mood of 
mind, are supposed to absolve poets from the obligation of 
firmness. Victor Alfieri demonstrated the immense effi- 
cacy of this single quality. We are almost tempted, as 
Ave contemplate his career, to rank powerful volition with 
genius itself. For by virtue of his force of purpose he 
overcame the formidable obstacles of a most unpropitious 
education, long habits of indulgence and an undisci- 
plined mind. Upon the most unpromising basis he 
reared a splendid intellectual fabric. Amid the most en- 
ervating influences he displayed extraordinary strength. 
With scarcely any external encouragement he wrought 
out in his own nature a stupendous revolution. His ex- 
ample is a most eloquent appeal in favour of human ver- 
satility. Disposition, habit, the want of knowledge, he 
conquered by moral determination. As Napoleon cut 
the Simplon through the rocks and snow of the Alps, 
Alfieri shaped his lonely way to the temple of fame over 
mountains of difficulty and amid the barren wastes of 
ignorance. This strength of purpose did not appear in 
his childhood except in one or two instances of juvenile 
obstinacy, by no means rare at that age. Another char- 
acteristic, perhaps inseparable from great decision, was 
much more manifest. From his earliest years it is evi- 
dent he felt profoundly. Mortification of any kind sank 
deeply into his soul. The novices who officiated at 
church won his young affections, though he only beheld 
them in attendance at the altar. In that spontaneous and 
almost ideal love, we recognise the germs of the passion 
that in after life fired his heart. There is a vividness in 
his reminiscences of infancy which proves that his very 
earliest experience was intense. 

Alfieri complains that he was born in an amphibious 
country. And certainly there is no section of Italy 
where the national characteristics are more invaded than 



ALFIEEI. ' 113 

Piedmont. The soil is Italian, the government Austri- 
an, ttie language of society French. Hence manners, 
opinions, customs, and much of the aspect of the capital, 
present to the stranger an incongruous mixture. The 
anomalous influences of his birth-place seem to have ex- 
tended to his destiny. The picture he has left of what 
was called his education, is one of the most alarming 
commentaries upon a despotic government that ever was 
written. Pedantry instead of truth, verbal memory 
instead of ideas, antiquated Latin instead of his native 
literature, and formal dogmas instead of interesting facts, 
were the fruit of his academic course. To this evil is to 
be added that of absence from all maternal or domestic 
influences at an infantile age, the tyranny of a dissipated 
valet, of a powerful, stupid fellow-student and injudicious 
professors, ill health, unjust restraint and ill-chosen com- 
panions. During these perverted years, how slept that 
energetic mind ! Occasionally music, some verses of 
Metastasio or of Ariosto read by stealth, an hour of tears 
with his sister at the convent grate, a ride into the envi- 
rons, or a holiday dinner with an uncle — breaks in like 
a stray gleam of sunshine upon the wasting and monot- 
onous life of the neglected boy. But as a whole, the 
dawn of his being, to a reflective mind, is inexpressibly 
sad. Rich and nobly born, yet confined to a useless and 
depressing routine, with his wild Piedmontese blood, his 
thirsting heart, his despairing temperament — ^not a health- 
ful conviction, not a lofty hope, not an ennobling aim 
grew up in the rich soil of that young soul — thus train- 
ing under royal authority. And yet but a short distance 
without those college walls rise in freedom and majesty 
the snow-covered mountains, upon which the rosy sun- 
light lingers, like the altars of liberty warmed by the 
smile of heaven. If any agency redeemed and preserved 
the unconscious youth of Alfieri, it was that of Nature ; 
7# 



114 THOUGHTS ON THE POETS. 

and we are relieved to follow him, unprepared as he was, 
on the first wild journey of his youth. It is melancholy 
to think of a young Italian traversing his country for the 
first time, with no sense of its peculiar associations. 
Yet thus was it with Alfieri in his early wanderings. He 
loved indeed the excitement of locomotion ; but the most 
attractive localities soon wearied him. He passed with 
inattentive soul the shrine of genius. He gazed list- 
lessly upon the trophies of art. He sadly confesses that 
he brought nothing home from his journeyings but a fit 
of illness. Still the mere variety of such a life had be- 
come necessary. 

Again and again he renewed his travels until he had 
seen, in a rapid and cursory manner, nearly every coun- 
try in Europe. It is interesting to observe, during these 
years of dissipation, how, ever and anon, his better na- 
ture became active. The sight of the sea, a solitary ride 
in the environs of Rome, some of the wonderful as- 
pects of nature in the North, so excited his imagination 
that he would have " wreaked upon expression" his emo- 
tions but for the want of adequate language and skill. 
He wept in an ecstacy of admiration over the pages of 
Plutarch, and thought beside the tomb of Michael Angelo 
how grand it was to leave an example to posterity. It is 
obvious, indeed, that during a youth, seemingly wholly 
given to the reckless pursuit of pleasure, Alfieri was al- 
ways a thinker. Perhaps meditative power i-s the crown- 
ing distinction of gifted minds. There is certainly an order 
of men who have delighted the world with their genius, 
having but little claim to the name of students, as that 
term is usually employed. Ashamed as was the young 
dramatist of his meagre attainments, the very dissatfsfac- 
tion which he vainly strove to annihilate by rapid pil- 
grimages indicates a mind too self-cognizant to remain 
long contented with inactivity. In reverting to this epoch 



ALFIERI. 115 

of his life, Alfieri gives us a truly painful insight into the 
restlessness of a forlorn spirit. Neither the freshness of 
his years, the liberty he enjoyed to roam where he liked, 
nor his singular susceptibility to many of the enjoyments 
of life, could afford an antidote to this wretched state of 
feeling. He subsequently learned that he could not even 
enjoy peace, far- less happiness, without a noble occupa- 
tion for his mind and a congenial object for his heart. 
Upon the first of these salutary principles he soon be- 
gan to act. In one of his visits at home, sitting by the 
sick-bed of his mistress, in a listless moment, he seized a 
pen to cover some sheets of paper by way of pastime. 
Upon the walls of the adjoining apartment were several 
pictures representing scenes in the history of Antony 
and Cleopatra. His thoughts were naturally drawn to 
this subject, and he sketched a few dialogues illustrative 
of the story. Exceedingly defective in point of lan- 
guage and style, they were not deficient in a certain 
spirit that suggested a more than ordinary ability. This 
careless effort was thrust under the sofa-cushion and soon 
forgotten. It was, however, the first feeble presage of 
a better experience. The intellect once aroused craved 
labour as its appropriate sphere, and in a short time Al- 
fieri deliberately formed the resolutions which resulted in 
a long career of successful mental toil. His first efforts 
were, of course, very desultory, and his plans were per- 
fected only by degrees. But the satisfaction derived from 
regular employment, the encouraging and judicious coun- 
sel of intelligent friends, and especially the incitement of 
ambition, gradually induced him to bring into full exer- 
cise his singular strength of will. The first step was to 
break off an ignoble liason, and conquer at once habits 
of conviviality and idleness. As Prince Henry, to the 
astonishment of his old friend Jack, suddenly threw off 
the trammels of pleasure upon coming to the throne, so 



116 THOUGHTS ON THE POETS. 

Alfieri, when he regained the kingdom of his mind, im- 
mediately cast aside all dalliance with idleness and folly. 
Then he commenced, like a very school-boy, the study of 
grammar, perused and reperused the Italian poets, went 
to Florence that he might learn even to think in Tuscan, 
and ordered himself to be tied in a chair to avoid yield- 
ing to external attraction that might draw him from his 
books, or encroach upon his hours of study. Once com- 
menced, the work of self-conquest went bravely on, and 
thenceforth Alfieri, with only occasional intermissions, 
was a studious and devoted man. His darling object was 
glory. He earnestly desired to impress his age, or at 
least win the respect of posterity, to immortalize his sen- 
timents and accomplish something worthy of renown. 
He bent all his energies to the task and succeeded. 

Among the peculiarities of Alfieri were his inveterate 
dislike of the French and his fondness of horses. Both 
the prejudice and the partiality are characteristic. The 
former originated in his acquaintance with a Parisian 
dancing-master at the Turin Academy. The levity of 
this personage, whose art he thoroughly hated, gave him 
an unprepossessing idea of the nation, which their inva- 
sion of Italy was but ill-calculated to remove. Paris was 
never congenial to the poet, and his residence there at the 
outbreak of the revolution, the insults he received from a 
mob on leaving the gate, as well as the reserve and 
thoughtfulness of his nature, confirmed his juvenile 
antipathy. In many points Alfieri's character assimila- 
ted with the English. He became early partial to their 
country and government, and ardently sympathised in 
their taste for fine steeds. In truth this passion divided 
his regards with love and tragedy-writing. Even in boy- 
hood he was chiefly extravagant in his horses. Continu- 
ally purchasing the finest specimens of this noble animal, 
taking the greatest pride in displaying their graces and 



AL FIERI. 117 

exercising the most scrupulous care of them, it was one 
of his chief pleasures to ride on horseback and travel 
with a fine cavalcade. At one time, with no small diffi- 
culty and at a great risk, he transported fourteen splendid 
horses from England. His account of their passage of 
the Alps is given with great gout. Visions of arching 
necks and beautiful evolutions haunted his dreams, and 
his directions for the training of his favourites, when ab- 
sent, are written with all the precision and interest of an 
enthusiast. 

There is a remarkable blending of energy and weak- 
ness, stern opinion and tender feeling, caprice and manli- 
ness, in the character of Alfieri. He had the resolution 
to commence and successfully prosecute the study of 
Greek, after the age of forty ; but not self-command 
enough to prevent his striking a favourite servant upon the 
slightest provocation, or hurling a book that displeased 
him out of the window. He was restless but firm in his 
attachments, wished ever to be with ihe few he loved, 
but in different places. He could not enjoy a medium in 
any thing. He declares that his head and heart were 
constantly at war. Alternately silent and loquacious, a 
laborious and abstemious student and a self-indulgent 
and reckless traveller, always at extremes, but ever noble 
in his aspirations, and like Brutus chiefly anxious to 
respect himself. Above adulation, the earnest advocate 
of literary and civil freedom, and yet keeping aloof from 
society and jealous of the least encroachment upon his 
personal views an-d purposes ; devoted where his heart 
was engaged ; a hater of kings, but not a lover of men, 
ampng whom he had indeed widely wandered, but with 
whom he never intimately mingled. He deeply felt the 
political degradation of his native land, and set a remark- 
able example of personal independence amid despotic in- 
fluences. He demonstrated how free a true man might 



118 THOUGHTS ON THE POETS. 

live among slaves. He aspired to be the poet of liberty, 
the prophet of a new era, the patriot who lived and wrote 
against his country's oppression, when other warfare was 
vain. 

Absolute and uncompromising hatred of tyranny was 
(me of the strongest feelings of his soul. In his sonhet 
on his own portrait, instead of comparing his complexion 
with snow or a lily, after the manner of most bards, he 
prefers the phrase, " pallido come un re sul trono^'' pale 
as a king on his throne. And yet the sentiment did not 
spring from love of equality or respect for man. Alfieri 
Was anything but a humanitarian. Exclusive in his 
attachments, full of contempt for the passive spirit that 
prevailed in Italy, while he thoroughly despised all the 
badges and supports of royalty, he was a species of intel- 
lectual aristocrat. He rejoiced that he was born a noble- 
man, chiefly that he might inveigh against rank without 
having his motives impugned. He expatriated himself 
rather than be subject to the little court of Turin ; and 
transferred his estate to a sister that all claims upon his 
allegiance might cease. He would not be introduced to 
Metastasio at Vienna, because he happened to see him 
bend the knee to Maria Theresa. He boasts that when 
the French occupied Florence, he remained so perfectly 
secluded in a neighbouring villa that he was not contam- 
inated by a single Gallic sound or sight ; and when the 
commanding general sought to visit him, he proudly in- 
formed him that Victor Alfieri was too old to make new 
acquaintances. His loftiness of spirit was indomitable. 
No punishment in childhood was so severe as being taken 
to mass with a small net on his head. He would not 
demand his books left behind in Paris lest it should be 
construed into a recognition of Napoleon's authority. 
He left many works in manuscript, rather than submit 
them to the censors before publication. He refused the 



AL FIERI. 119 

academic honours proffered by his native city, and tells 
us of the marble calmness of visage he preserved before 
others, when his heart was torn by conflicting passions. 
His stern independence was, however softened by gentler 
sentiments. At school he carefully concealed his superi- 
or dresses from the eyes of his less fortunate companions, 
and his best sympathies were excited for the King of Sar- 
dinia, whom he so contemned at home, when he saw him 
dethroned and in exile. He could never sell anything. 
Even when forced to part with his horses in travelling, 
he gave them to his banker or some casual acquaintance. 
Friendship and love were necessities of his being. 
Without their cheering and sustaining influences, he 
could not apply his mind with any success ; and when 
deprived for a time of such genial companionship, his 
distress was so great that he resorted at once to his old 
solace — constant change of scene. In early life his 
attachments were variable. He was involved in a duel in 
London on account of an amour, and was ever flying from 
one place to another on the wings of passion. But as 
his intellectual course became settled, a similar perma- 
nency seemed to regulate his aflfections. The light hair 
and dark eyes of the countess of Albany and especially 
her superior mind and high tone of feeling fixed the love 
of x\lfieri for twenty-five years, while Gori Gandinelli of 
Sienna, and the Abbe di Caluso of Turin, were his firm 
and congenial friends, from whom death alone divided 
him. 

Alfieri's tragedies strongly reflect his character. The 
personages are few and generally animated by single pas- 
sions. The language is terse, direct and emphatic, and 
the whole style formal and impassioned. There is scarce- 
ly any attempt at delicate colouring. All is defined and 
abrupt. His method seems to have been to dwell upon a 
theme until it warmed his fancy, boldly sketch its con 



120 THOUGHTS ON THE POETS. 

ception, and then versify and elaborate it. We find 
scarcely any of that marvellous and delicate insight into 
human nature, those refined shades of character, which 
distinguish Shakspere. Isolated sentiments are forcibly 
portrayed — certain states of mind powerfully delineated, 
but the creations are rather in outline or relievo than nat-~ 
urally coloured or varied with the detail of life. Stern 
resolves and intense feeling find sententious and striking 
expression in the mouths of his heroes, but a certain 
phase rather than the whole sphere of their natures is 
presented. Impressive and elegant often to a most attrac- 
tive degree is the dialogue ; but little of the living inter- 
est is imparted which characterizes the best English tra- 
gedies. " If," says a distinguished critic, " the muse of 
Metastasio is a love-sick nymph, the muse of Alfieri is 
an Amazon. He gave her a Spartan education ; he 
aimed at being the Cato of the theatre." Much of Ital- 
ian modern poetry is so enervating in its tone as to pos- 
sess no attraction for a Saxon mind. Alfieri introduced a 
new agency in this respect. No small portion of his 
tragedies is imbued with his own consciousness. Not 
only do they breathe dire anathemas aa^ainst Papal usur- 
pation and popular submission, but there is a certain 
elevating energy, a strength and firmness of manner in 
the very style, that braces though it may sometimes 
chill the heart. Herein has the proud tragedian convey- 
ed his best lesson. This hard moulding of his concep- 
tions echoes and reflects the principles upon which he 
lived. His life and tragedies are the scripture of the no- 
bler minds among the youth of Italy. From them they 
fortify their souls against the enslaving tendencies of des- 
potism ; and learn to aim at independence of feeling and 
an uncompromising course of life. Such admirers ol 
Alfieri honour him next to Dante. They gaze with pro- 
found interest on his portrait in the Florence gallery and 



A L F I E R 1 . 121 

the house he so long occupied on the Lung 'Amo. They 
walk reverently through the street which hears his name 
at Turin, and visit his tomb in Santa Croce, adorned by 
the chisel of Canova, as the shrine of liberty as well as 
of genius. 



CRABBE 



About the period of the Gordon riots, so vividly 
described in Barnaby Rudge, a young" man might have 
been observed, at the first glimmer of day, restlessly 
pacing to and fro on Westminster Bridge. Thus George 
Crabbe passed the night succeeding his application to 
Burke. It was the last of several appeals he had made 
to the distinguished men of the day, for relief from the 
inroads of poverty and encouragement in his devotion to 
the muse He felt, during those wearisome hours, that 
the crisis of his fate had arrived. Bravely for many 
months he had struggled on in the perilous career of a 
literary adventurer. Like so many men of genius then 
" gathered to the kings of thought," he had come to Lon- 
don with a stock of poems and a manly heart, trusting to 
find his way, at length, in that vast metropolis, if not to 
honourable distinction, at least to usefulness and compe- 
tence. He had vibrated from the door of the wealthy to 
the bookseller's counter, from his humble lodgings to the 
pawnbroker's shop, and hitherto without success. His 
spirits were elevated and soothed, at this critical season, 
by the love of one who became the genial companion _of 
his days. " My heart," says one of his letters, " is hum- 
bled to all but villany, and I would live, if honestly, in 
any situation. ^ ^ Hope, vanity, and the muse will 
certainly contribute something towards a light heart ; but 
love and the god of love can only throw a beam of glad- 



C R A B B E . 123 

ness on a heavy one." Happily his claims were recog- 
nised and his merits appreciated by Burke, and from his 
first interview with that generous man his prosperity 
dates. The early life of Crabbe was passed chiefly at a 
fishing village on the coast of Suffolk. Nature there 
was rude and sterile, his fellow beings uncultivated and 
almost savage, and their lives given to cheerless toil. 
Yet sometimes a boat's shadow on the sand or a fierce 
smuggler basking in the sun, would suggest images 
worthy of Salvator's pencil. If there was in that seclu- 
ded hamlet less restraint upon human passion, its exhibi- 
tion was often more affecting and suggestive. If fertile 
grace was wanting in the scenery, there was something 
grand in its desolation. It is not surprising that many 
years after his native spot had been abandoned, — in the 
bosom of his family, on a beautiful inland domain, 
Crabbe felt one summer day, such an irrepressible desire 
to behold the sea, that he suddenly mounted his horse 
and rode forty miles to the nearest coast. A harsh father 
and a kind mother, menial labour and stolen hours of de- 
sultory reading, the companionship of rough mariners 
and the love of a charming girl, occasional rhyming and 
long, solitary walks, an apprenticeship to a village Galen, 
and the thousand dreams that haunt the young and san- 
guine, divided the poet's hours. His patience, industry 
and cheerful temper rendered him no unworthy aspirant 
for the world's favour ; and when fortune smiled upon 
him in the form of his gifted benefactor, the same regu- 
lated habits and bland philosophy that had sustained his 
baffled youth, led him calmly to enjoy domestic peace 
and poetical success. His career in the church was 
marked by active benevolence and a happy influence. It 
was his singular lot, after the lapse of twenty years 
passed in retirement, to re-appear both as an author and 
in the social circles of London. At home his books and 



124 THOUGHTS ON THE POETS. 

children agreeably occupied the time which could be spared 
from professional duty. He enjoyed the warm regard of 
some of the choicest spirits of the day. When his vari- 
ous publications were finally revised and collected, Mur- 
ray gave him three thousand pounds for the copyright. 
In his affections he was singularly blessed, and passed 
away full of years and honour. 

Crabbe was no stoic. He could not conceal his feel- 
ings, and was a novel reader all his life. He had suffer- 
ed enough to teach him to feel for others. There was a 
rare and winning simplicity in his manners. He was 
remarkably unambitious for a son of the muses ; and 
sought mental delight according to his instincts rather 
than from prescribed rules. Manly and independent, 
with an active and exuberant mind, his character won 
him as many suffrages as his verse. His attachments, 
we are told, knew no decline and his heart seemed to 
mellow rather than grow frigid, with the lapse of time. 
We discover, in his life and writings, a kind of Indian 
summer benignly invading the winter of age. Such was 
Crabbe as a man. His fame, as a poet, is owing in some 
degree to the time of his appearance. It was his fortune 
to come forward during one of those lapses in the visits 
of the muse which invariably insure her a warmer 
welcome. Perhaps on this very account his merits have 
been somewhat exaggerated and vaguely defined, — at 
least by those whose early taste was permanently influ- 
enced by his genius. 

The kind of insight that distinguishes a man depends 
upon his taste and associations. A painter will be struck 
with an effect of light and shade, the contour of a head, 
or the grouping of a knot of gossips, that an engineer 
passes unnoticed. In visiting some Roman remains, I 
was amused at the delight with which an engraver sur- 
veyed the inscriptions, and remarked upon the cutting of 



CRAB BE. 125 

»^e letters. While one of a party of travellers is absorb- 
ea in the appearance of the crops, another indulges a 
metaphysical turn by analyzing the characters of his 
companions, and a third is lost in the beauty of the land- 
scape. We recognise a similar diversity among the 
Doets. Some grand truth relating to human nature, ex- 
cites the muse of Shakspere. He delights to announce 
tJiat 

We are such stuff 
As dreams are made of ; and our little life 
Is rounded with a sleep. 

The bards of the visible world, who love to designate 
its every feature, evince their observation by a happy 
term or most apt allusion, as when Bryant calls the hills 
" rock-ribbed," and the ocean a " gray and melancholy 
waste." Crabbe owes his popularity both to the sphere 
and quality of his observation. In these, almost exclu- 
sively, consists his originality. The form of his verse, 
the tone of his sentiment, and the play of his fancy, are, 
by no means, remarkable. He interests us from the com- 
paratively unhackneyed field he selected, and the pecu- 
liar manner in which he unfolds its treasures. He seized 
upon characters and events before thought unworthy of 
the minstrel. He turned, in a great measure, from the 
grand and elegant materials of poetry, and sought his 
themes amid the common-place and the vulgar. Nor 
was he aided in this course by any elevated theory of his 
own, like that of Wordsworth. He carried no magic 
torch into the dark labyrinths he explored, but was satis- 
fied to open them to the light of day- Indeed, Crabbe 
seems to have reversed all the ordinary principles of the 
art. His effects arise rather from sterility than luxuri- 
ance. His success seems the result rather of a matter- 
of-fact than an illusive process. The oft-quoted question 
of the mathematician to the bard — " what does it all 
8 



126 THOUGHTS ON THE POETS. 

prove ?" Crabbe often literally answers ; and to th'*s 
trait we cannot but refer the admiration in which tiis 
writer was held by Johnson, Gifford, and Jeffrey. These 
critics often failed to appreciate the more exalted and 
delicate displays of modern poetry ; but in Crabbe there 
was a pointed sense and tangible meaning that harmo- 
nized with their perceptions. Of poets in general ne 
are accustomed to say, that they weave imaginary charms 
around reality ; and, like the wave that sparkles above a 
wreck, or the flowery turf that conceals a sepulchre, in- 
terpose a rosy veil to beguile us from pain. But Crabbe 
often labours to strip life of its bright dreams, and portrays, 
with as keen a relish, the anatomical frame as the round 
and blooming flesh. He bears us not away from the lim- 
its of the present by the comprehensive views he presents ; 
but, on the contrary, is continually fixing our attention 
upon the minute details of existence, and the minor 
shades of experience. He seeks not to keep out of sight 
the meaner aspects of life, or relieve, with the glow of 
imagination, the dark traits of the actual. With a bold and 
industrious scrutiny he plunges into the gloomy particu- 
lars of human wretchedness ; and, like some of the Dutch 
limners, engages our attention, not by the unearthly gra- 
ces, but the appalling truthfulness of his pictures. Un- 
like Goldsmith, instead of casting a halo of romance 
around rustic life, he elaborately exposes its discomforts. 
He sometimes, indeed, paints the enchantments of love, 
but often only to contrast them with the worst trials of 
matrimony ; and woman's beauty is frequently described 
with zest in his pages, only to afford occasion to dwell 
upon its decay. 

It is evident, that to such a writer of verse many of 
the loftier and finer elements of the poet were wanting. 
The noble point, in a mind of this order, is integrity. 
The redeeming sentiment in Crabbe's nature was honesty, 



C R A B B E . 127 

in its broadest and most efficient sense. What he saw 
he faithfully lold. The pictures, clearly displayed to his 
mind, he copied to the life. He carried into verse a kind 
of dauntless simplicity, an almost Puritan loyalty to his 
convictions. He appears like one thoroughly determined 
to tell the homely truth in rhyme. Poetry has been 
called the " flower of experience." If we adopt this de- 
finition literally, Crabbe has small claims to the name of 
poet. He searched not so much for the meek violet and 
the blushing rose, as the weeds and briars that skirt the 
path of human destiny. Where, then, it may be asked, 
is his attraction ? The picturesque and the affecting do 
not, as he has demonstrated, exist only in alliance with 
beauty. The tangled brake may win the eye, in certain 
moods, as strongly as the garden ; and a desolate moor is 
often more impressive than a verdant hill-side. So rich 
and mysterious a thing is the human heart, so fearfully 
interesting is life, that there is a profound meaning in its 
mere elements. When these are laid bare, there is room 
for conjecture and discovery. We approach the revela- 
tion as we would the fathomless caves of the sea, if they 
were opened to our gaze. Some of Salvator's land- 
scapes, consisting mainly of a ship's hulk and a lonely 
strand, are more interesting than a combination of 
meadow, forest, and temples, by an inferior hand; and, 
on the same principle, one of Crabbe's free and true 
sketches is better than the timid composition of a more 
refined writer. Byron calls him " Nature's sternest 
painter, yet the best ;" and he has been well styled by 
another, the Hogarth of verse. There is something that 
excites our veneration in reality, whether in character or 
literature. " To the poet," says Carlyle, " we say first 
of all, see." And just so far as Crabbe saiv, (where the 
object admits,) he is poetical. There is a vast range 
which he not only failed to explore, but did not even ap- 



128 THOUGHTS ON THE POETS. 

preach. There is a world of delicate feeling, and exalted 
idealism of which he seems to have been almost uncon- 
scious. Of the deeper sympathies it may be questioned 
if he had any real experience. And yet we are to re- 
cognise in him no ordinary element of poetry — that in- 
sight which enabled him to perceive and to depict in so 
graphic a style, particular phas-es of life. We trace, too, 
in his writings a rare appreciation of many characteris- 
tics of our nature. He found these among the ignorant, 
where passion is poorly disguised. He acted as an in- 
terpreter between those whom refinement and social cul- 
tivation widely separated. He did much to diminish the 
force of the proverb, that " one half the world know not 
how the other half live ;" and to direct attention to the 
actual world and the passing hour, as fraught with an 
import and an interest, which habit alone prevents us 
from discovering. 

Crabbe was rather a man of science than an enthusi- 
ast. He looked upon nature with minute curiosity 
oftener than with vague delight. This is indicated by 
many of his descriptions, which are almost as special as 
the reports of a natural historian. He calls sea-nettles 
" living jellies," and speaks of kelp as floating on " blad- 
dery beads." Like Friar Lawrence, too, he thought that 
" muckle is the power and grace that lies in herbs, plants, 
stones, and their true qualities." Through life he was 
an assiduous collector of botanical and geological speci- 
mens. His partiality for detail is exhibited in many ot 
his allusions to the sea-side ; and they afford a remarka- 
ble contrast to the enlarged and undefined associations, 
which the same scene awakened in the mind of Byron. 
Crabbe loved nature, but it was in a very intelligent and 
unimpassioned way. When Lockhart took him to Salis- 
bury Crags, he was interested by their strata far more 
than the prospect they afforded. How light a sway 



C R A B B E . 129 

music held over him, may be realized from the fact that 
he once wrote the greater part of a poem in a London 
concert-room, to keep himself awake. The tone of his 
mind is revealed by the manner in which he wooed the 
muse. From his own artless letters we cannot but dis- 
cover that much of his vers€ was produced by a mechan- 
ical process. His best metaphors, he tells us, were in- 
serted after the tale itself was completed. He confesses 
his surprise that, in two or three instances, he was much 
affected by what he wrote, which is proof enough of the 
uninspired spirit in which many of his compositions 
were conceived. " I rhyme at Hampstead with a great 
deal of facility," says one of his letters. Accordingly 
his writings fall much below the works " produced too 
slowly ever to decay." In fact, with all his peculiar 
merits, Crabbe was often a mere rhymer, and the culti- 
vated lover of poetry, who feels a delicate reverence for 
its more perfect models, will find many of his volumin- 
ous heroics unimpressive and tedious. But interwoven 
with these, is many a picture of human misery, many a 
display of coarse passion and unmitigated grief, of delu- 
sive joy and haggard want, of vulgar selfishness and 
moral truth, that awaken sympathy even to pain, and win 
admiration for the masterly execution of the artist. 
Much of the poetry of Crabbe, however, is of such a 
character that we can conceive of its being written in 
almost any quantity. He began to write not so much 
from impulse alone, as motives of self-improvement and 
interest. When his situation was comfortable, he ceased 
versifying for a long interval, and resumed the occupa- 
tion because he was encouraged to do so by the support 
of the public. Only occasionally, and in particular 
respects, does he excite wonder. The form and spirit of 
his works are seldom exalted above ordinary associations. 
Hence they are more easily imitated, and in the " Re- 



130 THOUGHTS ON THE POETS. 

jected Addresses," one of the closest parodies is that of 
Crabbe. The department he originally chose was almost 
uninvaded, and he was singularly fitted to occupy it with 
success. In addition to his graphic ability, and the stu- 
died fidelity of his portraiture, which were his great in- 
tellectual advantages, there were others arising from the 
warmth and excellence of his heart. He sympathized 
enough with human nature to understand its weaknesses 
and wants. His pathos is sometimes inimitable; and 
superadded to these rare qualifications, we must allow 
him a felicity of diction, a fluency and propriety in the 
use of language, which, if it made him sometimes 
diffuse, at others gave a remarkable freedom and point to 
his verses. 

Illustrations of these qualities abound in Crabbe's wri- 
tmgs. His similes convey a good idea of his prevailing 
tendency to avail himself of prosaic associations, which 
in ordinary hands, would . utterly fail of their intended 
effect : 

For all that honour brings against the force 

Of headlong passion, aids its rapid course ; 

Its slight resistance but provokes the fire. 

As wood-work stops the flame and then convevs it higher. 

As various colours in a painted ball 

While it has rest, are seen distinctly all ; 

Till whirled around by some exterior force, 

They all are blended in the rapid course ; 

So in repose and not by passion swayed, 

We saw the difference by their habits made; 

But tried by strong emotions, they became 

Filled with one love, and were in heart the same. 

The following are specimens of his homely minute 
ness. 

* cold and wet and driving with the tide, 

Beats his weak arms against his tarry side. 
* An oyBtormao. 



C R A B B E . 131 

Hence one his favourite habitation gets, 
The brick-floored parlour which the butcher lets, 
Where, through his single light, he may regard 
The various business of a common yard, 
Bounded by backs of buildings formed of clay. 
By stables, sties, coops, et cetera. 

A BAR ROOM. 

Here port in bottles stood, a well-stained row. 
Drawn for the evening from the pipe below ; 
Three powerful spirits filled a parted case. 
Some cordial bottles stood in secret place ; 
Fair acid fruits in nets above were seen. 
Her plate was splendid and her glasses clean. 
Basins and bowls were ready on the stand. 
And measures clattered in her powerful hand. 
Here curling fumes in lazy wreaths arise> 
And prosing topers rub their winking eyes, 

• COCK-FIGHTING. 

Here the poor bird th' inhuman cocker brings. 
Arms his hard heel and clips his golden wings ^ 
With spicy foodth' impatient spirit feeds. 
And shouts and curses as the battle bleeds. 
Struck through the brain, deprived of both his eyes. 
The vanquished bird must combat till he dies , 
Must faintly peck at his victorious foe. 
And reel and stagger at each feeble blow ; 
When fallen, the savage grasps his dabbled plumes, 
His blood-stained arms for other deaths assumes. 
And damns the craven fowl that lost his stake. 
And only bled and perished, for his sake. 

Fresh were his features, his attire was new. 
Clean was his linen, and his jacket blue, 
Of finest jean his trowsers tight and trim. 
Brushed the large buckle at the silver rim. 

Twin infants then appear, a girl, a boy. 
The o'erflowing cup of Gerard Ablett's joy; 
One had I named in every year that past, 
Since Gerard wed, — and twins behold at last ! 



132 • THOUGHTS ONTHE POETS. 

Ah ! much I envy thee thy boys who ride 

On poplar branch, and canter at thy side ; 

And girls whose cheeks thy chin's fierce fondness know. 

And with fresh beauty at the contact glow. 

His fondness for antitheses is often exemplified : 

The easy followers in the female train, 

Led without love, and captives without chain. '' 

Opposed to these we have a prouder kind, 
Rash without heat and without raptures blind. 

Hour after hour, men thus contending sit, 
Grave without sense, and pointed without wit 

Gained without skill, without inquiry bought, 
Lost without love, and.borrowed without thought. 

It is amusing, with the old complaints of the indefi- 
niteness of poetry fresh in the mind, to encounter such 
literal rhyming as the following, — a sailor is addressing 
his recreant mistress : 

Nay, speak at once, and Dinah, let me know, 
Means't thou to take me, now I'm wreck'd, in tow ? 
Be fair, nor longer keep me in the dark, ' 
Am I forsaken for a trimmer spark ? 

Grave Jonas Kindred, Sybil Kindred's sire, 
Was six feet high, and look'd six inches higher. 

A tender, timid maid, who knew not how 
To pass a pig-sty, or to face a cow. 

Where one huge, wooden bowl before them stood. 
Filled with huge balls of farinaceous food. 
With bacon most saline, where never lean 
Beneath the brown and bristly rind was seen. 

Asa male turkey straggling on the green, 
When by fierce harriers, terriers, mongrels seen, 
He feels the insults of the merry train. 
And moves aside though filled by much disdain ; 
But when that turkey at his own barn-door, 
Sees one poor straying puppy and no more, 



C R A B B E . 133 

(A foolish puppy who had left the pack, 

Thoughtless what foe was threat'ning at his back,) 

He moves about, as ships prepared to sail. 

He hoists his proud rotundity of tail, 

The half-sealed eyes and changeful neck he shows. 

Where in its quickening colours vengeance glows ; 

From red to blue the pendant wattle turn, 

Blue mixed with red as matches when they burUy 

And thus the intruding snarier to oppose, 

Urged by enkindling wrath, he gobbling goes. 

No image appears too humble for Crabbe : 

For these occasions forth his knowledge sprung, 
As mustard quickens on a bed of dung. 

When his graphic power is applied to a different or- 
der of subjects and accompanied with more sentiment, 
we behold the legitimate evidences of his title to the name 
of poet : 

Then how serene ! when in your favourite room. 
Gales from your jasmins soothe the evening gloom, 
When from your upland paddock you look down 
And just perceive the smoke which hides the town ; 
When weary peasants at the close of day, 
Walk to their cots and part upon the way ; 
When cattle slowly cross the shallow brook, 
And shepherds pen their folds and rest upon their crook. 

Their's is yon house that holds the parish poor, 
Whose walls of mud scarce bear the broken door ; 
There, where the putrid vapours flagging play, 
And the dull wheel hums doleful through the day; 
There children dwell who know no parents care, 
Parents, who know no childrens' love, dwell there. 
Heart-broken matrons on their joyless bed. 
Forsaken wives and mothers never wed ; 
Dejected widows with unheeded tears, 
And crippled age with more than childhood's fears. 
The lame, the blind, and far the happiest they. 
The moping idiot and the madman gay. 

8* 



134 THOUGHTS ON THE POETS. 

Lo ! where the heath, with withering brake grown o'er. 

Lends the light turf that warms the neighbouring poor. 

From thence a length of burning sand appears, 

Where the thin harvest waves its withered ears ; 

Rank weeds that every art and care defy. 

Reign o'er the land and rob the blighted rye ; 

There thistles stretch their prickly arms afar. 

And to the ragged infant threaten war. 

There poppies nodding mock the hope of toil. 

There the blue bugloss paints the sterile soil ; 

Hardy and high above the slender sheaf, 

The shiny mallow waves her silky leaf; 

O'er the young shoot the sharlock throws a shade. 

And clasping tares cling round the sickly blade ; 

With mingled tints the rocky coasts abound, 

And a sad splendour vainly shines around. 

Here joyless roam a wild, amphibious race. 

With sullen woe displayed in every face ; 

Who far from civil arts and social fly. 

And scowl at strangers with suspicious eye ; 

Here, too, the lawless merchant of the main. 

Draws from his plough th' intoxicated swain ; 

Want only claimed the labours of the day. 

But vice now steals the nightly rest away.* 

Ye gentle souls who dream of rural ease, 

Whom the smooth stream and smoother sonnet please : 

Go ! if the peaceful cot your praises share. 

Go ! look within, and ask if peace be there ; 

If peace be his — that drooping, weary sire, 

If theirs, that offspring round their feeble fire ; 

Or hers— that matron pale, whose trembling hand 

Turns on her wretched hearth the expiring brand. 

No small portion of the interest Crabbe's writings have 
excited, is to be ascribed to his ingenious stories. Some 
of them are entertaining from the incidents they narrate, 
and others on account of the sagacious remarks with 
which they are interwoven. These attractions often co- 

* This admirable description refers to Aldoborough, the author's birth-place. 



C R A B B E . 135 

exist with but a slight degree of poetic merit, beyond cor- 
rect versification and an occasional metaphor. Most of 
the tales are founded in real circumstances, and the char- 
acters were drawn, with some modification, from existent 
originals. Scarcely a feature of romance or even im- 
probability belong to these singular narratives. They are 
usually domestic in their nature, and excite curiosity be- 
cause so near to common experience. As proofs of in- 
ventive genius they are often striking, and if couched in 
elegant prose or a dramatic form, would, in some cases, 
be far more effective. Lamb tried the latter experiment 
in one instance, with marked success.^ These rhymed 
histories of events and personages within the range of 
ordinary life, seem admirably calculated to win the less 
imaginative to a love of poetry. Crabbe has proved a 
most serviceable pioneer to the timid haunters of Parnas- 
sus, and decked with alluring trophies, the outskirts of 
the land of song. We can easily understand how a cer- 
tain order of minds relish his poems better than any other 
writings in the same department of literature. There is 
a singular tone of every-day truth and practical sense 
about them. They deal with the tangible realities around 
us. They unfold " the artful workings of a vulgar mind," 
and depict with amusing exactitude, the hourly trials of 
existence. A gipsy group, a dissipated burgess, the vic- 
tims of profligacy, the mean resentments of ignorant 
minds, a coarse tyrant, a vindictive woman, a fen or a 
fishing boat — those beings and objects which meet us by 
the way-side of the world, the common, the real, the 
more rude elements of life, are set before us in the pages 
of Crabbe, in the most bold relief and affecting contrast. 
There is often a gloom, an unrelieved wretchedness, an 
absolute degradation about these delineations, which 
weighs upon the spirits — the sadness of a tragedy with- 
* The Wife's Trial. 



136 THOUGHTS ON THE POETS. 

out its ideal grandeur or its poetic consolation. But the 
redeeming influence of such creations lies in the melan- 
choly but wholesome truths they convey. The mists 
that shroud the dwellings of the wretched are rolled away, 
the wounds of the social system are laid bare, and the 
sternest facts of experience are proclaimed. This process 
was greatly required in Great Britain when Crabbe ap- 
peared as the bard of the poor. He arrayed the dark 
history of their needs and oppression in a guise which 
would attract the eye of taste. He led many a luxurious 
peer to the haunts of poverty. He carried home to the 
souls of the pampered and proud, a startling revelation of 
the distress and crime that hung unnoticed around their 
steps. He fulfilled, in his day, the same benevolent of- 
fice which, in a diflferent style, has since been so ably 
continued by Dickens. These two writers have pub- 
lished to the world, the condition of the English poor, in 
characters of light ; and thrown the whole force of their 
genius into an appeal from the iniustice of society and 
the abuses of civilization. 



SHELLEY 



*' Was cradled into poetry by wrong, 
And learned in suffering what he taught in song." 

It is now about eighteen years since the waters of the 
Mediterranean closed over one of the most delicately or- 
ganized and richly endowed beings of our era. A scion 
of the English aristocracy, the nobility of his soul threw 
far into the shade all conventional distinctions ; while his 
views of life and standard of action were infinitely broad- 
er and more elevated than the narrow limits of caste. 
Highly imaginative, susceptible and brave, even in boy- 
hood he reverenced the honest convictions of his own 
mind above success or authority. With a deep tbirst for 
knowledge, he united a profound interest in his race. 
Highly philosophical in his taste, truth was the prize for 
which he most earnestly contended ; heroical in his tem- 
per, freedom he regarded as the dearest boon of exist- 
ence ; of a tender and ardent heart, love was the grand 
hope and consolation of his being, while beauty formed 
the most genial element of his existence. 

Of such a nature, when viewed in a broad light, were 
the elements of Shelley's character. Nor is it difficult 
to reconcile them with the detail of his opinions and the 
tenor of his life. It is easy to imagine a state of society 
in which such a being might freely develope, and felicit- 
ously realize principles and endowments so full of pro- 



138 THOITGHTS ON THE POETS. 

mise ; while, on the other hand, it is only necessary to 
look around on the world as it is, or back upon its past 
records, to lose all surprise that this fine specimen of hu- 
manity was sadly misunderstood and his immediate in- 
fluence perverted. The happy agency which as an inde- 
pendent thinker and humane poet might have been pro- 
phecied of Shelley, presupposed a degree of considera- 
tion and sympathy, not to say delicacy and reverence, on 
the part of society, a wisdom in the process of education, 
a scope of youthful experience, an entire integrity of treat- 
ment, to be encountered only in the dreams of the 
Utopian. To have elicited in forms of unadulterated 
good the characteristics of such a nature, " when his be- 
ing overflowed," the world should have been to him, 

*' As a golden chalice to bright wine 
Which else had sunk into the thirsty dust."* 

Instead of this, at the first sparkling of that fountain, the 
teachings of the world, and the lessons of life, were cal- 
culated to dam up its free tide in the formal embank- 
ments of custom and power. What wonder, then, that 
it overleaped such barriers, and wound waywardly aside 
into solitude, to hear no sound " save its own dashings ?" 

The publication of the posthumous proset of Shelley, 
is chiefly interesting from the fact that it perfectly con- 
firms our best impressions of the man. We here trace 
in his confidential letters, the love and philanthropy to 
which his muse was devoted. All his literary opinions 
evidence the same sincerity. His refined admiration of 
nature, his habits of intense study and moral independ- 
ence, have not been exaggerated. The noble actions 
ascribed to him by partial friends, are proved to be the 

* Prometheus Unbound. 

f Essays, Letters from Abroad, Translations and Fragments. 
By Percy Bysshe Shelley. Edited by Mrs. Shelley : London. 
1840. 



\ 



SHELLEY. 139 

natural results of his native feelings. The peculiar suf- 
ferings of body and mind, of experience and imagina- 
tion, to which his temperament and destiny subjected 
him, have in no degree been overstated. His generosity 
and high ideal of intellectual greatness and human excel- 
lence, are more than indicated in the unstudied outpour- 
ings of his familiar correspondence. 

Love, according to Shelley, is the sum and essence of 
goodness. While listening to the organ in the Cathedral 
of Pisa, he sighed that charity instead of faith was not 
regarded as the substance of universal religion. Self he 
considered as the poisonous " burr " which especially de- 
formed modern society ; and to overthrow this " dark 
idolatry," he embarked on a lonely but most honourable 
crusade. The impetuosity of youth doubtless gave to 
the style of his enterprise an aspect startling to some of 
his well-meaning fellow-creatures. All social reformers 
must expect to be misinterpreted and reviled. In the 
case of Shelley, the great cause for regret is that so few 
should have paid homage to his pure and sincere inten- 
tions ; that so many should have credited the countless 
slanders heaped on his name ; and that a nature so gifted 
and sensitive, should have been selected as the object of 
such wilful persecution. 

The young poet saw men reposing supinely upon dog- 
mas, and hiding cold hearts behind technical creeds, in- 
stead of acting out the sublime idea of human brother- 
hood. His moral sense was shocked at the injustice of 
society in heaping contumely upon an erring woman, 
while it recognizes and honours the author of her dis- 
grace. He saddened at the spectacle so often presented, 
of artificial union in married life, the enforced constancy 
of unsympathizing beings, hearts dying out in the long 
struggle of an uncongenial bond. Above all, his benevo- 
lent spirit bled for the slavery of the mass — the supersti- 



140 THOUGHTS ON THE POETS. 

tious enthralment of the ignorant many. He looked upon 
the long procession of his fellow-creatures plodding 
gloomily on to their graves, conscious of social bondage, 
yet making no effort for freedom, groaning under self- 
imposed burdens, yet afraid to cast them off, conceiving 
better things, yet executing nothing. Many have felt 
and still feel thus. Shelley aspired to embody in action, 
and to illustrate in life and literature the reform which 
his whole nature demanded. He dared to lead forth at 
a public ball the scorned victim of seduction, and appal 
the hypocritical crowd by an act of true moral courage. 
As a boy, he gave evidence of his attachment to liberty 
by overthrowing a system of school tyranny; and this 
sentiment, in after life, found scope in his Odes to the 
Revolutionists of Spain and Italy. He fearlessly dis- 
cussed the subject of marriage, and argued for abolishing 
an institution which he sincerely believed perverted the 
very sentiment upon which it is professedly based. " If I 
have conformed to the usages of the world, on the score 
of matrimony," says one of his letters, " it is that dis- 
grace always attaches to the weaker sex." In relation 
to this and other of his theories, the language of a fine 
writer in reference to a kindred spirit is justly applicable 
to Shelley. " He conceived too nobly for his fellows — 
he raised the standard of morality above the reach of hu- 
manity ; and, by directing virtue to the most airy and 
romantic heights, made her paths dangerous, solitary, 
and impracticable." Shelley entertained a perfect dis- 
gust for the consideratfon attached to wealth, and ob- 
served, with, impatient grief, the shadow property throws 
over modest worth and unmoneyed excellence. Upon this 
sentiment, also, he habituall}'- acted. The maintenance 
of his opinions cost him, among other sacrifices, a fine 
estate. So constant and profuse was his liberality to- 
wards impoverished men of letters, and the indigent in 



SHELLE Y 



141 



general, that he was obliged to live with great economy. 
He subjected himself to serious inconvenience while in 
Italy, to assist a friend in introducing steam navigation 
on the Mediterranean. It was his disposition to glory in 
and support true merit wherever he found it. He was 
one of the first to recognize the dawning genius of Mrs. 
Hemans, to whom he addressed a letter of encourage- 
ment when she was a mere girl. He advocated a diet- 
etic reform, from a strong conviction that abstinence from 
spirituous liquors and animal food, would do much to reno- 
vate the human race. Upon this idea his own habits were 
based. But the most obnoxious of Shelley's avowed opin- 
ions, was his non-concurrence in the prevalent system 
of Religion. To the reflective student of his writings, 
however, the poet's atheism is very different from what 
interested critics have made it. School and its associa- 
tions were inexpressibly trying to his free and sensitive 
nature ; and a series of puzzling questions of a metaphy- 
sical character, which he encountered in the course of 
his recreative reading, planted the seeds of skepticism in 
his mind, which enforced religious observances and un- 
happy experience soon fertilized. Queen Mab, the pro- 
duction of a collegian in his teens, is rather an attack 
upon a creed than Christianity ; and was never published 
with the author's consent. It should be considered as 
the crude outbreak of juvenile talent eager to make trial 
of the new weapons furnished by the logic of Eton. Yet 
it was impertinently dragged into notice to blight the 
new and rich flowers of his maturer genius, and meanly 
quoted against Shelley in the chancery suit, by which he 
was deprived of his children. Instead of smiling at its 
absurdities, or rejecting, with similar reasoning its argu- 
ments, the force of authority, the very last to alarm such 
a spirit, was alone resorted to. What wonder if the ar- 
dent boy's doubts of the popular system was increased, 



142 THOUGHTS ON THE POETS. 

his views of social degradation confirmed ; that he came 
to regard custom as the tyrant of the universe, and pro- 
posed to abandon a world from whose bosom he had been 
basely spurned ? If an intense attachment to truth, and 
an habitual spirit of disinterestedness constitute any part 
of religion, Shelley was eminently religious. For the 
divine character portrayed in the Gospels, he probably, in 
his latter years, had a truer reverence than the majority 
of Christians. If we are to credit one of his most inti- 
mate friends, the Beatitudes constituted his delight and 
embodied his principles of faith. As far as the Deity is 
worshipped by a profound sensibility to the wonders and 
beauty of his universe, a tender love of his creatures and 
a cherished veneration for the highest revelations of hu- 
manity, the calumniated poet was singularly devout. 
" Fools rush in where angels fear to tread," is true of hu- 
man conduct not less in its so called religious than its 
other aspects. We live in an atmosphere of doubt. To 
attain to clear and unvarying convictions, in regard to 
the mysteries of our being, is not the lot of all. There 
are those who cannot choose but wonder at the unbound- 
ed confidence of theologians. It is comparatively easy to 
be a church-goer, to conform to religious observances, to 
acquiesce in prevailing opinions; but to how many all 
this is but a part of the mere machinery of life ! There 
are those who are slow to profess and quick to feel, who 
can only bow in meekness, and hope in trembling. Shel- 
ley's nature was peculiarly reverential, but he entertained 
certain speculative doubts — and with the ordinary dis- 
plays of Christianity he could not sympathize. The popu- 
lar conception of the Divinity did not meet his wants ; 
and so the world attached to him the brand of atheist, 
and, under this anathema, hunted him down. " The 
shapings of our Heavens," says Lamb, " are the modifi- 
cations of our constitutions." Shelley's ideal nature 
modified his religious sentiment. 



SHELLEY. 143 

*'I loved, I know not what ; but this low sphere 
And all that it contains, contains not thee : 

Thou whom seen nowhere, I feel everywhere, 
Dim object of my soul's idolatry."* 

His Hymn to Intellectual beauty is instinct with the 
spirit of pure devotion, directed to the highest conception 
of his nature. Unthinking, indeed, is he who can for a 
moment believe that such a being could exist without 
adoration. Dr. Johnson says that Milton grew old with- 
out any visible worship. The opinions of Shelley are no 
more to be regarded as an index to his heart, than the 
blind bard's quiet musings as a proof that the fire of 
devotion did not burn within. Shelley's expulsion from 
college, for questioning the validity of Christianity, or 
perhaps more justly, asserting its abuses, was the turning 
point in his destiny. This event, following immediately 
upon the disappointment of his first attachment, stirred 
the very depths of his nature — and in all probability, 
transformed the future man, from a good Enghsh squire, 
to a politician and reformer. Then came his premature 
marriage, to which impulsive gratitude was the blind 
motive, the bitter consequences of his error, his divorce 
and separation from his children, his new and happy 
connection founded on true afiection and intellectual sji-m- 
pathy, his adventurous exile and sudden death. How 
long, we are tempted to ask in calmly reviewing his life, 
will it require, in this age of wonders, for the truth to be 
recognized that opinions are independent of the will, and 
therefore not, in themselves, legitimate subjects of moral 
approbation or blame ? It has been said that the purpo- 
ses of men most truly indicate their characters. Where 
can we find an individual in modern history of more 
exalted aims than Shelley ? While a youth, he was wont 
to stray from his fellows, and thoughtfully resolve 
* The Zucca 



144 THOUGHTS ON THE POETS. 

" To be wise 
And just and free and mild."* 

When suffering poverty in London, after his banish- 
ment, his benevolence found exercise in the hospitals, 
which he daily visited to minister to the victims of pain 
and disease. The object of constant malice, he never 
degenerated into a satirist. 

" Alas, good friend, what profit can you see 
In hating such a hateless thing as me ? 
* * * * 

There is no sport in hate, when all the rage 
Is on one side. 

Of your antipathy 
If I am the Narcissus, you are free 
To pine into a sound with hating me."t 

Though baffled in his plans, and cut off from frequent 
enjoyment by physical anguish, love and hope still tri- 
umphed over misanthropy and despair. He was adored 
by his friends, and beloved by the poor. Even Byron 
curbed his passions at Shelley's wise rebuke, hailed him 
as his better angel, and transfused something of his ele- 
vated tone into the later emanations of his genius. 

*' Fearless he was and scorning all disguise, 

What he dared do or think, though men might start. 

He spoke with mild yet unaverted eyes ; 
Liberal he was of soul and frank of heart ; 

And to his dearest friends, who loved him well, 
Whate'er he knew or felt he would impart."J 

And yet this is the man who was disgraced and banned 
for his opinions — deemed by a court of his country un- 
worthy to educate his own children — disowned by his 
kindred, and forced from his native land ! What a re- 
flection to a candid mind, that slander long prevented 
acquaintance and communion between Shelley and Lamb ! 

« Revolt of Islam. t Sonnet. :[ Prince Athanase. 



SHELLEY 



145 



How disgusting the thought of those vapid faces of the 
travelling English, who have done more to disenchant 
Italy than all her beggars, turned in scorn from the poet, 
as they encountered him on the Pincian or Lung'Arno ! 
With what indignation do we think of that beautiful 
head being defaced by a blow ! Yet we are told, when 
Shelley was inquiring for letters at a continental post- 
office, some ruffian, under colour of the common preju- 
dice, upon hearing his name, struck him to earth. 

As a poet Shelley was strikingly original. He main- 
tained the identity of poetry and philosophy ; and the 
bent of his genius seems to have been to present philoso- 
phical speculations, and " beautiful idealisms of moral 
excellence," in poetical forms. He was too fond of look- 
ing beyond the obvious and tangible to form a merely 
descriptive poet, and too metaphysical in his taste to be a 
purely sentimental one. He has neither the intense ego- 
tism of Byron, nor the simple fervour of Burns. In gen- 
eral the scope of his poems is abstract, abounding in 
w^onderful displays of fancy and allegorical invention. 
Of these qualities, the Revolt of Islam is a striking ex- 
ample. This lack of personality and directness, prevents 
the poetry of Shelley from impressing the memory like 
that of Mrs. Hemans' or Moore. His images pass before 
the mind like frost work at moonlight, strangely beauti- 
ful, glittering and rare, but of transient duration, and 
dream-like interest. Hence, the great body of his poetry 
can never be popular. Of this he seemed perfectly aware, 
*' Prometheus Unbound," according to his own statement, 
was composed with a view to a very limited audience ; 
and the " Cenci," which was written according to more 
popular canons of taste, cost him great labour. The 
other dramas of Shelley are cast in classical moulds, 
not only as to form but m tone and spirit ; and scattered 
through them are some of the most splendid' gems of 



146 THOUGHTS ON THE POETS. 

expression and metaphor to be found in the whole range 
of English poetry. Although these classical dramas 
seem to have been most congenial to the poet's taste, 
there is abundant evidence of his superior capacity in 
more popular schools of his art. For touching beauty, 
his " Lines written in Dejection near Naples," is not sur- 
passed by any similar lyric ; and his " Sky-Lark" is 
perfectly buoyant with the very music it commemorates. 
" Julian and Maddalo" was written according to Leigh 
Hunt's theory of poetical diction, and is a graceful speci- 
men of that style. But " The Cenci" is the greatest 
evidence we have of the poet's power over his own geni- 
us. Horrible and difficult of refined treatment as is the 
subject, with what power and tact is it developed ! 
When I beheld the pensive loveliness of Beatrice's por- 
trait at the Barbarini palace, it seemed as if the painter 
had exhausted the ideal of her story. Shelley's tragedy 
should be read with that exquisite painting before the 
imagination. The poet has surrounded it with an inter- 
est surpassing the limner's art. For impressive effect 
upon the reader's mind, exciting the emotions of " terror 
and pity" which tragedy aims to produce, how few mod- 
ern dramas can compare with " The Cenci !" Perhaps 
'* Adonais" is the most characteristic of Shelley's poems. 
It was written under the excitement of sympathy ; and 
while the style and images are peculiar to the poet, an 
uncommon degree of natural sentiment vivifies this elegy. 
In dwelling upon its pathetic numbers, we seem to trace 
in the fate of Keats, thus poetically described, Shelley's 
own destiny depicted by the instinct of his genius. 

" 0, weep for Adonais I — The quick Dreams, 
The passion-winged Ministers of thought, 
Who were his flocks, whom near the living streams 
Of his young spirit he fed, and whom he taught 
The love which was its music, wander not, — 
Wander no more. 



SHELLEY. 147 

* gentle child, beautiful as thou wert, 

Why didst thou leave the trodden paths of men 

Too soon, and with weak hands though mighty heart. 

Dare the unpastured dragon in his den. 

Defenceless as thou wert, oh ! where was then 

Wisdom the mirror'd shield, or scorn the spear ? 

Or hadst thou waited the full cycle when 

Thy spirit should have fill'd its cresent sphere, 

The monsters of life's waste had fled from thee like aeer 
****** 

Nor let us weep that our delight is fled 

Far from these carrion-kites that scream below ; 

He wakes or sleeps with the enduring dead ; 

Thou canst not soar where he is sitting now. 

Dust to the dust ! but the pure spirit shall flow 

Back to the burning fountain whence it came, 

A portion of the Eternal, 

******* 

He has outsoar'd the shadow of our night ; 

Envy and calumny, and hate and pain, 

And that unrest which men miscall delight. 

Can touch him not and torture not again ; 

From the contagion of the world's slow stain 

He is secure, and now can never mourn 

A heart grown cold, a head grown gray in vain ; 

Nor, when the spirit's self has ceased to burn, 

With sparkless ashes load an unlamented urn. 
****** 

The inheritors of unfulfilled renown, 

Rose from their thrones built beyond mortal thought 

Far in the Unapparent. 

* Thou art become one of us,' they cry. 

* * * * * ' * 

And he is gathered to the kings of thought 

Who waged contention with their times decay. 

And of the past are all that cannot pass away. 
****** 

Life, like a dome of many-colour'd glass. 

Stains the white radiance of Eternity, 

Until Death tramples it to fragments. 

***** 

My spirit's bark is driven 

Far from the shore, far from the trembling throng 

Whose sails were never to the tempest given." 



148 THOUGHTS 01^ THE POETS 

The elements of Shelley's genhis were rarely mingled. 
The grand in nature delighted his muse. Volcanoes and 
glaciers, Alpine summits and rocky caverns filled his fan- 
cy. It was his joy to pass the spring-days amid the ruin- 
ed baths of Caracalla, and to seek the corridors of the 
Coliseum at moonlight. He loved to watch the growth 
of thunder-showers, and to chronicle his dreams. Ger- 
man literature, to which he was early attracted, probably 
originated much of his taste for the wild and wonderful. 
Plato and the Greek poets, sculpture and solitude, fed his 
spirit. Such ideas as that of will unconquered by tyr- 
anny, the brave endurance of suffering, legends like the 
" Wandering Jew" — the poetry of evil as depicted in the 
Book of Job — " Paradise Lost," the story of " Prome- 
theus," and the traditions of " The Cenci," interested 
him profoundly. He revelled in " the tempestuous love- 
liness of terror." The sea was Shelley's idol. Some 
of his happiest hours were passed in a boat. The easy 
motion, 

" Active without toil or stress. 
Passive without listlessness," 

probably soothed his excitable temperament ; while the 
expanse of wave and sky, the countless phenomena of 
cloud and billow, and the awful grandeur of storms en- 
tranced his soul. Hence his favourite illustrations are 
drawn from the sea, and many of them are as perfect 
pearls of poesy as ever the adventurous diver rescued 
from the deep of imagination. Nor were they obtained 
without severe struggle and earnest application. Shel- 
ley's life was intense, and although only in his thirtieth 
year when his beloved element wrapped him in the em- 
brace of death, the snows of premature age already fleck- 
ed his auburn locks ; and, in sensation and experience, 
he was wont to say, he had far outsped the calendar. 
Shelley was a true disciple of love. He maintained with 



SHELLEY. 149 

rare eloquence the spontaneity and sanctity of the passion, 
and sought to realize the ideal of his affections with all a 
poet's earnestness. Alastor typifies the vain search. 

Time — the great healer of wounded hearts — the mighty 
vindicator of injured worth — is rapidly dispersing the 
mists which have hitherto shrouded the fame of Shelley. 
Sympathy for his sufferings, and a clearer insight into 
his motives, are fast redeeming his name and influence. 
Whatever views his countrymen may entertain, there is 
a kind of living posterity in this young republic, who 
judge of genius by a calm study of its fruits, wholly un- 
influenced by the distant murmur of local prejudice and 
party rage. To such, the thought of Shelley is hallowed 
by the aspirations and spirit of love with which his verse 
overflows ; and in their pilgrimage to the old world, they 
turn aside from the more august ruins of Rome, to muse 
reverently upon the poet, where 

" One keen pyramid with wedge sublime, 
Pavilioning the dust of him who plann'd 
This refuge for his memory, doth stand 
Like flame transform'd to marble ; and beneath, 
A field is spread, on which a newer band 
Have pitched in Heaven^s smile their camp of death. 
Welcoming him we love with scarce extinguish'd breath."* 



Note. — This article having been censured and misunderstood, the following 
letter was afterwards published in the Magazine in which it appeared. 

" Your letter informing me of the manner in which some of 
your readers have seen fit to regard my remarks on Shelley, is at 
hand. I am at a loss to conceive how any candid or discrimina- 
ting mind can view the article in question as a defence of Shel- 
ley's opinions. It was intended rather to place the man himself 
in a more just point of view, than that which common prejudice 
assigns him. T only contend that mere opinions — especially those 
of early youth, do not constitute the only or the best criterion of 
character. I have spoken in defence rather of Shelley's tenden- 
cies and real purposes, than of his theories, and endeavoured to 
* Adunois. 

9* 



150 THOUGHTS ON THE POETS. 

vindicate what was truly lovely and noble in his nature. To 
these gifts and graces the many have long been blinded. We 
have heard much of Shelley's atheistical philosophy and little of 
his benevolent heart, much of his boyish infidelity and little of 
his kind acts and elevated sentiments. That I have attempted to 
call attention to these characteristics of the poet, I cannot regret; 
and to me such a course seems perfectly consistent with a rejec- 
tion of his peculiar views of society and religion. These we 
know were in a great degree visionary and contrary to well-estab- 
lished principles of human nature. Still they were ever under- 
going modifications, and his heart often anticipated the noblest 
teachings of faith. A careful study of the life and writings of 
Shelley, will narrow the apparent chasm between him and the 
acknowledged ornaments of our race. It will lead us to trace 
much that is obnoxious in his views to an aggravated experience 
of ill, and to discover in the inmost sanctuary of his soul much to 
venerate and love, much that will sanctify the genius which the 
careless and bigoted regard as having been wholly desecrated. 

" One of your correspondents says, ' I do not pretend to be mi- 
nutely acquainted with the details of his life, having never read 
his letters recently published.' And yet, confessedly ignorant of 
the subject, as he is, he still goes on to repeat and exaggerate the 
various slanders which have been heaped upon the name of one 
who I still believe should rank among the most noble characters 
of modern times. It is not a little surprising that while, in all 
questions of science, men deem the most careful inquiry requisite 
to form just conclusions, in those infinitely more subtle and holy 
inquiries which relate to human character, they do not scruple to 
yield to the most reckless prejudice. Far otherwise do I look 
upon such subjects. When an individual has given the most un- 
doubted proof of high and generous character, I reverence human 
nature too much to credit every scandalous rumour, or acquiesce 
in the suggestions of malevolent criticism, regarding him. Had 
your correspondent examined conscientiously the history of Shel- 
ley, he would have discovered that he never abandoned his wife, 
and thus drove her to self-destruction. They were wholly unfit 
companions. Shelley married her from gratitude, for the kind 
care she took of him in illness. It was the impulsive act of a 
generous but thoughtless youth. They separated by mutual con- 
sent, and some time elapsed before she committed suicide. That 
event is said to have overwhelmed Shelley with grief, not that 
he felt himself in any manner to blame, but that he had not suffi- 



SHELLEY. 161 

fiiently considered his wife's incapacity for self-government, and 
provided by suitable care for so dreadful an exigency. After this 
event, Shelley married Miss Godwin, with whom he enjoyed 
uninterrupted domestic felicity during the short remainder of his 
life. His conduct accorded perfectly with the views, and, in a 
great measure, with the practice of Milton. With that prying 
injustice, which characterizes the English press, in relation to 
persons holding obnoxious opinions, the facts were misrepresent- 
ed, and Shelley described as one of the most cruel monsters. So 
much for his views of Religion and Marriage. * A Friend to 
Virtue" is shocked at my remark, that ' opinions are not in them- 
selves legitimate subjects of moral approbation or censure.' He 
should have quoted the whole sentence. The reason adduced is, 
that they are "' independent of the will.^ This I maintain to be 
correct. I know not what are the grounds upon which * A Friend 
to Virtue' estimates his kind. For myself, it is my honest en- 
deavour to look through the web of opinion, and the environment 
of circumstances, to the heart. Intellectual constitutions differ 
essentially. They are diversified by more or less imagination 
and reasoning power, and are greatly influenced by early impres- 
sions. Accordingly, it is very rarely that we find two individuals 
who think precisely alike on any subject. Even in the same 
person opinions constantly change. Their formation originally 
depends upon the peculiar traits of mind with which the indi- 
vidual is endowed. His peculiar moral and mental experience 
afterwards modifies them, so that, except as far as faithful inquiry 
goes, he is not responsible in the premises. We must then look 
to the heart, the native disposition, the feelings, if we would 
really know a man. Thus regarded, Shelley has few equals. 
Speculatively he may have been an Atheist ; in his inmost soul 
he was a Christian. This may appear paradoxical, but I believe 
it is more frequently the case than we are aware. An inquiring, 
argumentative mind, may often fail in attaining settled convic- 
tions ; while at the same time the moral nature is so true and 
active, that the heart, as Wordsworth says, may ' do God's word 
and know it not.' Thus I believe it was with Shelley. Venera- 
tion was his predominant sentiment. His biographer and intimate 
friend, Leigh Hunt, says of him, ' He was pious towards nature — 
towards his friends — towards the whole human race — towards the 
meanest insect of the forest.' He did himself an injustice with 
the public in using the popular name of the Supreme Being in- 
considerately. He identified it solely with the most tyrannical 



152 THOUGHTS ON THE POETS. 

notions of God, made after the worst human fashion ; and did not 
sufficiently reflect that it was often used by a juster devotion to 
express a sense of the Great Mover of the Universe. An 
impatience in contradicting worldly and pernicious notions 
of a supernatural power, led his own aspirations to be mis- 
construed. As has been justly remarked by a writer eminent 
for his piety — * the greatest want of religious feeling is not 
to be found among the greatest infidels, but among those 
who only think of religion as a matter of course.' The 
more important the proposition, the more he thought him- 
self bound to investigate it ; the greater the demand upon his as- 
sent, the less upon their own principles of reasoning he thought 
himself bound to grant it." Logical training was the last to which 
such a nature as Shelley's should have been subjected. Under 
this discipline at Oxford, he viewed all subjects through the me- 
dium of mere reason. Exceedingly fond of argument, in a spirit 
of adventurous boldness he turned the weapons furnished him 
by his teachers, against the venerable form of Christianity, and 
wrote Queen Mab. Be it remembered, however, he never pub- 
lished it. The MS. was disposed of without his knowledge 
and against his will. Yet at this very time his fellow-student tells 
us that Shelley studied fifteen hours a-day — lived chiefly upon 
bread, in order to save enough from his limited income to assist 
poor scholars — stopped in his long walks to give an orange to a 
gipsey-boy, or purchase milk for a destitute child — talked con- 
stantly of plans for the amelioration of society — was roused to the 
warmest indignation by every casual instance of oppression — yield- 
ed up his whole soul to the admiration of moral excellence — and 
worshipped truth in every form with a singleness of heart, and an 
ardour of feeling, as rare as it was inspiring. He was, according 
to the same and kindred testimony, wholly unaffected in manner, 
full of genuine modesty, and possessed by an insatiable thirst for 
knowledge. Although a devoted student, his heart was unchilled 
by mental application. He at that time delighted in the Platonic 
doctrine of the pre-existence of the soul, and loved to believe 
that all knowledge now acquired is but reminiscence. Gentle and 
affectionate to all, benevolent to a fault, and deeply loved by all 
who knew him, it was his misfortune to have an early experience 
of ill, to be thrown rudely upon the world — to be misunderstood 
and slandered, and especially to indulge the wild speculations of 
an ardent mind without the slightest worldly prudence. Shelley, 
phrenologically speaking, had no organ of cautiousness. Hence 



SHELLEY. 153 

his virtues and graces availed him not in the world, much as they 
endeared him to those who-enjoyed his intimacy. In these re- 
marks I would not be misunderstood. I do not subscribe to Shel- 
ley's opinions. I regret that he thought as he did upon many sub- 
jects for his own sake as well as for that of society. The great 
mass of his poetry is not congenial to my taste. And yet these 
considerations do not blind me to the rare quality of his genius — 
to the native independence of his mind — to the noble aspirations 
after the beautiful and the true, which glowed in his soul. I ho- 
nour Shelley as that rare character — a sincere man. I venerate 
his generous sentiments. I recognize in him qualities which I 
seldom find among the passive recipients of opinion — the tame fol- 
lowers of routine. I know how much easier it is to conform pru- 
dently to social institutions ; but, as far as my experience goes, 
they are full of error, and do great injustice to humanity. I res- 
pect the man who in sincerity of purpose discusses their claims, 
even if I cannot coincide in his views. Nor is this all. I cannot 
lose sight of the fact, that Shelley's nature is but partially reveal- 
ed to us. We have as it were, a few stray gleams of his wayward 
orb. Had it fully risen above the horizon instead of being prema- 
turely quenched in the sea, perchance its beams would have clear- 
ly reflected at last, the holy effulgence of the Star of Bethlehem. 
Let us pity, if we will, the errors of Shelley's judgment ; but let 
not preiudice blind us to his merits. " His life," says his wife, 
" was spent in arduous study, and in acts of kindness and affection. 
To see him was to love him." Surely there is a redeeming worth 
in the memory of one whose bosom was ever ready to support the 
weary brow of a brother — whose purposes were high and true — 
whose heart was enamoured of beauty, and devoted to his race : 



if this fail, 



The pillared firmaneut is rottenness, 
And earth's base built on stubble. 



LEIGH HUNT. 



If the productions of an author afford an insight into 
his character, we cannot but infer that Leigh Hunt is, in 
many respects, a delightful man. The writings, from 
which this inference is drawn, form, probably, but a small 
proportion of the poet's compositions ; still they are suffi- 
cient to convey a very definite impression, and afford 
ample basis for illustrative remark. We are espe- 
cially justified in such a view from the fact that one, and 
by no means the least attractive of them, is a charming 
bit of autobiography, which gives the reader as fair a 
view of Mr. Hunt's heart, and an epoch or two of his 
life, as IS afforded by the memoirs of Carlo Goldoni, 
which some critic has affirmed are more amusing than 
any of his comedies. The ancestral qualities of Leigh 
Hunt are truly enviable. His father descended from a 
line of West-India gentlemen, and his mother was the 
daughter of a Pennsylvania Quaker. Here was a fine 
mixture of tropical ardour and friendly placidity — of cordial 
gentility and prudent reserve — of careless cheerfulness 
and sober method. Both his parents were intellectually 
disposed ; and his mother was partly won by her lover's 
fine readings of the English poets, which the son truly 
describes as " a noble kind of courtship." The paternal 
inheritance of the young author was like the revenue of 
Horatio — a fund of " good-spirits ;" and apparently they 
have enabled him, like Hamlet's friend, to take fortune's 



LEIGH HUNT. 155 

frowns and smiles " with equal thanks." He was, indeed, 
early inured to the experience of ill ; but happily, certain 
mental antidotes were ever at hand to mitigate the power 
of evil. His first recollections are associated with the 
pecuniary embarrassments of his family, and a prison 
witnessed the sports of his childhood. " We struggled 
on," he says, * between quiet and disturbance, placid read- 
ings and frightful knocks at the door, sickness and calam- 
ity, and hopes that hardly ever forsook us." 

It is very obvious, from his truly filial portrait, that the 
poet's mother had, if any thing, more than an average 
share in giving a decided bias to his taste. She was a 
true lover of books and nature ; and encouraged her son's 
poetic and literary tendencies in the sweetest manner. 
She treasured his early rhymes, carried them about her 
person, and exhibited them to their intimate friends with 
maternal pride. What a pleasing reminiscence must this 
have been to the poet in after life — how much better than 
a contrary course ! What an influence it must have had in 
confirming his devotion to truth, his love of beauty, his 
superiority to the world's idols ! According to his own 
confessions, written in the prime of life, poetry ; by which 
we mean the loveliness of external nature, the true 
delights of society and affection, the creations of genius ; 
all in short that redeems existence and refreshes the soul 
— has been the chief solace of his days. It has support- 
ed him in captivity, it has soothed the irritation of pain, 
it has made an humble lot independent, it has woven 
delightful ties with the good and the gifted, and bestowed 
wings on which he has soared to commune with immor- 
tals. In how many bosoms has the same ethereal instinct 
been extinguished by disdain ! We cannot but recall 
what has often been quoted as a witticism by certain prac- 
tical wiseacres — " that every youth is expected to have 
*,he poetical disease once in his life as he haj the measles, 



156 THOUGHTS ON THE POETS. 

and his friends rejoice when it is fairly over." It is such 
inhuman maxims, as far removed even from the philoso- 
phy of common-sense as they are from that of truth, that 
blight the flowers of humanity in the bud. Unfortunate- 
ly they are too common among us. It was not the in- 
trinsic merit so much as the spirit and the promise of her 
son's juvenile efforts, that the discerning heart of the 
mother applauded. Who can estimate the effect such 
sacred approval exerted ? Perchance it made holy and 
permanent to that young mind what was before only 
regarded as an agreeable pastime. Not for the prospect 
of fame it suggested, was that sanction valuable, but be- 
cause of the dawning sentiment it cherished, the lofty 
aims it prompted, the elevated tastes to which it gave 
strength and nurture. Had Leigh Hunt never written a 
decent couplet afterwards, this course would have been 
equally praiseworthy. Poetical traits of mind are fre- 
quently unallied with felicitous powers of expression. 
Their value to the individual, are not on this account 
essentially diminished. Through them is he to sympa- 
thize with the grand and lovely in literature, with the 
beautiful in creation, and the heroic in life. One early 
word of scorn thoughtlessly cast from revered lips, upon 
the unfolding sensibility to the poetical, may turn aside 
into darkness the clearest stream of the soul, may blast 
the germ of the richest flower on the highway of Time, 
Our self-biographer makes sufficiently light of his boy- 
ish offerings to the muses, but never for a moment loses 
his reverence for their trophies, or his thirst for their in- 
spiration. It is evident that these feelings are the source 
of much of his cheerful philosophy ; and that they have 
kept alive his attachment to imaginative literature, his 
fondness for moral pleasure, his eye for the picturesque 
in every day life, and his soul for genial society. The 
truly poetical heart never grows old. " It is astonishing,'* 



LEIGH HUNT. 157 

remarks our author, in speaking of an aged friend of his 
youth, " how long a cordial pulse will keep playing, if 
allowed reasonably to have its way." The world wears, 
like dropping water, upon the prosaic mind, till it becomes 
petrified and cold. But whosoever has earnestly embra- 
ced the opposite creed, shall never fail to see in his kind 
something to cheer and to interest, as well as to repel and 
disgust. Let us hear again the testimony of one whose 
education was poetical : " Great disappointment and ex- 
ceeding viciousness may talk as they please of the bad- 
ness of human nature ; for my part, I am on the verge of 
forty; I have seen a good deal of the world, the dark 
side as well as the light, and I say that human nature is 
a very good and kindly thing, and capable of all sorts of 
excellence." 

After awaking from his boyhood's dream of authorship, 
Leigh Hunt turned his talents to account as a journalist. 
He began by writing theatrical criticisms — the attraction 
of which was their perfect independence, no small nov- 
elty at the period. The habit of thinking for himself, 
according to his own account, was another blessing to 
which he was legitimate heir. It is traceable in his lit- 
erary opinions, which have an air of perfect individuality, 
and in his theory of versification. Such a characteristic, 
one of the noblest to which our times give scope, soon 
brought the adventurous writer into difficulty. He and 
his brother, the joint proprietors of the " Examiner," 
were prosecuted for a libel on the Prince-Regent. They 
would not, as a matter of principle, allow their friends to 
pay the fine adjudged, and accordingly went to prison. 
Of this event we have a very graphic account in the bio- 
graphical sketch. Here too was the bard followed by his 
better angel as well as his wife. Though deprived of 
liberty just at the moment the state of his health rendered 
it most valuable, though at first disturbed by sights and 



158 THOUGHTS ON THE POETS. 

sounds of human misery, and sometimes afflicted with 
illness and depression, yet he managed to fit up his 
room charmingly, to arrange a garden, to read and make 
verses, besides being consoled by the presence of his 
family and the visits of his friends. Indeed when we 
think of the rare spirits whose converse brightened his 
confinement, we can almost envy him a captivity, which 
brought such glorious freedom to his better nature, such 
mountain liberty to mind and heart. 

Some of his epistles contain striking proofs of the 
pleasure with which he reverted to these kind attentions. 
At the close of one to Byron, he expresses his grateful 
recollection of 

" that frank surprise, when Moore and you 
Came to my cage, like warblers, kind and true, 
And told me, with your arts of cordial lying. 
How well I looked, although you thought me dying.** 

And in another to Charles Lamb, he says : 

" You'll guess why I can't see the snow-covered streets. 
Without thinking of you and your visiting feats. 
When you call to remembrance how you and one more 
When I wanted it most, used to knock at my door ; 
And leaving the world to the fogs and the fighters. 
We discussed the pretensions of all sorts of writers." 

Soon after his liberation, Mr. Hunt visited Italy. De- 
spite of some pleasing references in his narrative of this 
absence, it is but too evident that ill-health and domestic 
cares prevented the poet from thoroughly appreciating 
the charms of Tuscany. To these causes, and strong 
home partialities, it is just to ascribe those somewhat 
unreasonable regrets, for meadows, green lanes and large 
trees, which appear in his journal. Indeed the writer 
hints as much himself. A wretched winter voyage, and 
the melancholy loss of a generous friend, must have con- 
tributed to throw many gloomy associations around this 



LEIGH HUNT. 159 

period of his life. Like many an invalid with active 
endowments, Leigh Hunt has since continued to live, 
and we doubt not, in a good measure, to enjoy life. He 
is the father of a large family, and pursues his literary 
avocations with tasteful devotion. Within a short time 
he has produced a successful play ; and the last result of 
his labours that has come to our knowledge, is a new 
edition of some of the old dramatists. 

At the outset of his career, his ambition was to excel 
as a bard. His principal success, however, seems chiefly 
to lay in a certain vein of essay-writing, in which fancy 
and familiarity are delightfully combined. Still he has 
woven many rhymes that are not only sweet and cheer- 
ful, but possess a peculiar grace and merit of their own, 
besides illustrating some capital ideas relative to poetical 
diction and influence. They are, to be sure, deformed 
by some offences against the dignity of the muse, in the 
shape of affectations and far-fetched conceits. It is diffi- 
cult, if not impossible, to become reconciled to such epi- 
thets as " kneadingly," " lumpishly," " surfy massive- 
ness," " waviness" and others of a like character, 
however applied; and it quite spoils our conception of a 
nymph, to read of her " side-long hips," and her 

" Smooth, down-arching thigh, 
Tapering with tremulous mass internally ."^^ 

But such blemishes cannot render the discerning reader 
insensible to his frequent touches of felicitous description 
and gleams of delightful fancy. A kindly tone of fel- 
lowship and a quick relish of delight, give a fascinating 
interest to much of his verse. He has aimed to make 
poetry more frank and social, to set aside the formal 
mannerism of stately rhyme, and introduce a more 
friendly and easy style. He eschews the ultra-artificial, 
and has frequently succeeded in giving a spontaneous 
flow and airy freedom to his lines, without neglecting* 



m 



THOUGHTS ON THE POETS. 



beauty of thought, or degenerating into carelessness. 
This is an uncommon achievement. There is a species 
of verse between the song and the poem, combining the 
sparkling life of the one with the elaborate imagery of 
the other, uniting an extemporaneous form with a studied 
material. In this department Mr. Hunt is no common 
proficient. He sometimes indeed carries playful simpli- 
city too far. It would require, for instance, a large 
development of philoprogenitiveness to beget a zest for 
" Little ranting Johnny ;" but the Lines to a Musical 
Box, are as pretty as the instrument they celebrate : 

" It really seems as if a sprite 
Had struck among us swift and light, 
And come from some minuter star 
To treat us with his pearl guitar." 

So the little poem to one of his young children during 
illness, is a gem of its kind : 

*' Sleep breathes at last from out thee, 

My little patient boy ; 
And balmy rest about thee 

Smooths off the day's annoy, 
I sit me down and think 

Of all thy winning ways ; 
Yet almost wish with sudden shrink. 

That I had less to praise." 

The piece being addressed to a boy six years old, 
should of course be simply expressed ; and I have heard 
fathers praise it, which is proof enough of its cleverness. 
Mr. Hunt is an advocate for the poetry of cheerfulness. 
He heartily recognizes the bright spirit of the Grecian 
bards, and the light hearts that gushed in song in the 
'' merry days" of England. He is no friend to over-spe- 
culation or laborious rhyming. He thinks we are de- 
signed " to enjoy more than to know," and evokes his 
muse to celebrate the " sunny side of things," to help him 



LEIGH HUNT. 161 

pass a happy hour, or give those he loves an agreeable 
surprise. He affords us a view of his philosophy, in an 
epistle to Hazlitt, which, cheering as it is, savours of the 
latitude of his Barbadoes ancestors rather than that of 
London, and has more of the imaginative Southern gen- 
tleman about it than the American Quaker : 

" One's life, I conceive, might go prettily down 
In a due, easy mixture of country and town ; — 
Not after the fashion of most with two houses, 
Who gossip and gape and just follow their spouses. 
And let their abode be wherever it will. 
Are the same vacant, housekeeping animals still ; 
But with due sense of each, and of all that it yields, — 
In the town, of the town, — in the fields, of the fields. 
To tell you the truth,! could spend very well 
Whole mornings in this way 'twixt here and Pall Mall, 
And make my glove's fingers as black as my hat, 
In pulling the books up from this stall and that ; — 
Then turning home gently through field and o'er stile, 
Partly reading a purchase, or rhyming the while, 
Take my dinner (to make a long evening) at two. 
With a few droppers-in, like my cousin and you, 
Who can season the talk with the right-flavoured attic, 
Too witty for tattling, too wise for dogmatic ; — 
Then take down an author whom one of us mentions, 
And doat, for awhile, on his jokes or inventions ; 
Then have Mozart touched, on our battle's completion. 
Or one of your fav'rite trim ballads Venetian : — 
Then up for a walk before tea, down a valley, 
And so to come back through a leafy-wall'd alley ; 
Then tea made by one (although my wife she be) 
If Jove were to drink it, would soon be his Hebe ; 
Then silence a little, — a creeping twilight, — 
Then an egg for your supper, with lettuces white. 
And a moon and friend's arm to go home with at night " 

Mr. Hunt's ablest production in verse, is the story of 
Rimini. It is an attempt to convey an affecting narra- 
tive through the medium of more idiomatic cast of 
language and freer versification, than is common to Eng- 
10 



162 THOUGHTS ON THE POETS. 

lish poetry. Thus regarded, it may justly be pronounced 
a highly successful poem. Open to criticism, as it un- 
questionably is considered abstractly, when viewed with 
reference to the author's theory, and judged by its own 
law, no reader of taste and sensibility can hesitate to 
approve as well as admire its execution. The poet 
seems to have caught the very spirit of his scene. The 
tale is presented, as we might imagine it to have flowed 
from an improvisator e. Its tone is singularly familiar 
and fanciful. It is precisely such a poem as we love to 
read under the trees on a summer afternoon, or in a gar- 
den by moonlight. All appearance of effort in the con- 
struction is concealed. Some of the descriptive passages 
are perfect pictures, and the sentiment is portrayed by a 
feeling hand. We can easily imagine the cool contempt 
with which a certain- class of critics would regard this 
little work. They would rank it with the music of un- 
fledged warblers, and, from the absence of certain very 
formal and decided traits, confidently assign it " an im- 
mortality of near a week." But there are some rare feli- 
cities in this unpretending poem which will always be 
appreciated. It will touch and please many a young 
heart yet ; and have its due influence in letting down the 
stilted style of more assuming rhymers. The descrip- 
tion of the procession in the first canto, is very spirited 
and true to life. We can almost see the gaily-adorned 
knights and prancing horses, and hear 

" Their golden bits keep wrangling as they go," 
We can almost behold the expectant princess, as 

" with an impulse and affection free 

She lays her hand upon her father's knee. 
Who looks upon her with a laboured smile, 
Gathering it up into his own the while." 

And we mentally join in the greetings of the multitude, 
when Paulo 



LEIGH HUNT. 163 

** on a milk-white courser, like the air, 

A glorious figure, springs into the square." 

The appearance of the hero is painted most vividly to 
the eye, as is the bride's journey to Rimini ; and through 
out, there is a zest and beauty of imagery, that is redo- 
lent of the " sweet south." The consummation of the 
" fatal passion," is admirably and poetically traced. The 
author acknowledges his obligations to Dante for the last 
touch to the picture. The passage will give a fair idea 
of the poet's manner. The heroine is in her favourite 
bower, where — 

'*■ Ready she sat with one hand to turn o'er 
The leaf, to which her thoughts ran on before, 
The other propping her white brow and throwing 
Its ringlets out, under the skylight glowing, 
So sat she fixed ; and so observed was she 
Of one who at the door stood tenderly, — 
Paulo, — who from a window seeing her 
Gn straight across the lawn, and guessing where, 
Had thought she was in tears, and found, that day. 
His usual efforts vain to keep away. 
* May I come in ?' said he : it made her start, — 
That smiling voice.; she coloured, pressed her heart 
A moment, as for breath, and then with free 
And usual tone, said, ' yes, — certainly.' 
There's apt to be at conscious times like these. 
An affectation of a bright-eyed ease, 
An air of something quite serene and sure, 
As if to seem so, was to be, secure. 
With this the lovers met, with this they spoKe, 
With this they sat down to the self-same book 
And Paulo by decrees gently embraced 
With one permitted arm her lovely waist ; 
And both their cheeks, like peaches on a tree. 
Leaned with a touch together, thrillingly ; 
And o'er the book they hung and nothing said, 
And every page grew longer as they read, 
As thus they sat, and felt with leaps of heart 
Their colour change, they came upon a part 
Where fond Ginevra, with her flame long nurst. 



164 THOUGHTS ON THE POETS, 

Smiled upon Launcelot when he kissed her first : 
That touch at last through every fibre slid ; 
And Paulo turned scarce knowing what he did, 
Only he felt he could no more dissemble, 
And kissed her mouth to mouth all in a tremble. 
Sad were those hearts, and sweet was that long kiss : 
Sacred be love from sight whate'er it is, 
The world was all forgot, the struggle o'er, 
Desperate their joy. — That day they read no more." 

Whatever may be deemed the success, as that term is 
popularly used, of Leigh Hunt, in literature, he may 
claim the happy distinction of interesting his readers in 
himself. Let critics pick as many flaws as they will, the 
pervading good-nature and poetic feeling of the author of 
Rimini, will ever be recognized. In an age like our 
own, it is no small triumph for a writer to feel, that, both 
in practice and precept, he has advocated a cheerful phi- 
losophy ; that he has celebrated the charms of refined 
friendship, the unworn attractiveness of fields and flowers, 
the true amenities of social life, and the delights of ima- 
ginative literature. The spirit of our author's life and 
writings, like that of his friend Lamb, is cheering and 
beautiful. He manifests a liberal and candid heart. His 
influence is benign and genial ; and the thought of him, 
even to the strangers to his person on this side of the 
ocean, is kindly and refreshing. 



BYRON 



Three thousand copies of Byron's poems are sold 
annually in this country. Such a fact affords sufficient 
reason for hazarding some remarks on a theme which 
may well be deemed exhausted. " My dear sir," said 
Dr. Johnson, " clear your mind of cant." This process 
is essential to a right appreciation of Byron. No indi- 
vidual, perhaps, ever more completely " wore his heart 
upon his sleeve" and no heart was ever more thoroughly 
pecked at by the daws. The moral aspect of the poet's 
claims has never been fairly understood. No small class 
of well-meaning persons avoid his works as if they 
breathed contagion ; whereas it would be difficult to find a 
poet whose good and evil influence are more distinctly 
marked. The weeds and flowers, the poisonous gums 
and " roses steeped in dew," are not inextricably min- 
gled in the garden of his verse. The same frankness 
and freedom that marked his life, is evident in his pro- 
ductions. It is unjust to call Byron insidious. The sen- 
timents he unveils are not to be misunderstood. They 
appear in bold relief, and he who runs may read. There 
is, therefore, a vast deal of cant in much that is said of 
the moral perversion of the poet. Where he is inspired 
by low views, the darkness of the fountain tinges the 
whole stream; and where he yields to the love of the 
beautiful, it is equally apparent. There are those who 
would cut off the young from all acquaintance with his 



166 THOUGHTS ON THE POETS. 

works, because they are sometimes degraded by unworthy 
ideas or too truly reflect some of the dark epochs of his 
life. But it is to be feared that the mind that cannot dis- 
criminate betv/een the genuine poetry and the folly and 
vice of these writings, will be unsafe amid the moral 
exposure of all life and literature. Indeed, there can 
scarcely be conceived a book at once more melancholy 
and more moral than Moore's Life of Byron. It deline- 
tes the vain and wretched endeavours of a gifted spirit 
to find in pleasure what virtue alone can give. It por- 
trays a man of great sensibility, generous impulses and 
large endowments, attempting to live without settled prin- 
ciple, and be happy without exalted hopes. There is no 
more touching spectacle in human life. Genius is always 
attractive ; but when allied to great errors it gives a les- 
son to the world beyond the preacher's skill. What aw- 
ful hints lurk in the affected badinage of Byron's journal 
and letters ' What an idea do they convey of mental 
struggles ! After reading one of his poems, how signifi- 
cant a moral is his own confession : " I have written this 
to wring myself from reality." And when he was expos- 
tulated with for the misanthropic colouring of his longest 
and best poems, who can fail to look " more in pity than 
in anger," upon the bard when he declares " I feel you 
are right, but I also feel that I am sincere." 

The apparent drift of Byron's versified logic is skepti- 
cism. He continually preaches hopelessness ; but the ac- 
tual effect of his poetry seems to me directly the reverse. 
No bard more emphatically illustrates the absolute need 
we all have of love and truth. His very wailing is more 
significant than the rejoicing of tamer minstrels. No 
one can intelligently commune with his musings and 
escape the conviction that their dark hues spring from 
the vain endeavour to reconcile error and the soul. By- 
ron's egotism, his identity with his characters, his cyni- 



BYRON. 167 

cism, his want of universality, his perverted creed and 
fevered impulses have been elaborately unfolded by a 
host of critics. The indirect, but perhaps not less effec- 
tive lessons he taught, are seldom recognized. The cant 
of criticism has blinded many to the noble fervour of his 
lays devoted to Nature and Freedom. All his utterance is 
not sneering and sarcastic ; and it argues a most unca- 
tholic taste to stamp with a single epithet compositions so 
versatile in spirit. It is curious to trace the caprice which 
runs through the habits and opinions of Byron. It 
should ever be borne in mind in contemplating his char- 
acter, that in many respects he became, or tried to become, 
the creature which the world made him. He took a kind 
of wicked pleasure in adapting himself to the strange 
portraits which gossips had drawn. Still, with all due 
•allowance for this disposition, the views and acts of the 
poet were marked by the various contradictions which 
entered so largely into his nature and fortunes. Compare, 
for instance, such phrases as " cash is virtue" and '* I 
like a row," with some of his deliberate sentiments em- 
bodied in verse. His letters to Murray alone display a 
constant series of cross directions. Well did he observe 
" lam like quicksilver and say nothing positively." His 
opinions on the subject of his own art cannot be made 
to coincide with each other or with his own practice. 
He long preferred " Hints from Horace" to the first two 
cantos of " Childe Harold," prided himself more upon 
his translations of Pulci than " The Corsair," and declar- 
ed the "Prophecy of Dante" the best thing he ever wrote. 
He over-estimated Scott and Crabbe, was blind to the 
true merit of Keats, and very unreasonable in his defer- 
ence to Gifford. He charges Campbell with underrating 
the importance of local authenticity in poetry with a 
view to protect his Gertrude of Wyoming; without 
remembering that his own defence of Pope was induced 



168 THOITGHTS ON THE POETS. 

by a motive equally selfish. No man reasoned more 
exclusively from individual consciousness or was oftener 
biased by personal motives, and yet when the Countess 
Guiccioli begged him not to continue Don Juan, he com- 
plained that it was only because the production threw 
ridicule upon sentiment, which it was a woman's interest 
to sustain. 

There is a kind of superstition which seems the legiti- 
mate result of sentiment. The idea of destiny will gen- 
erally be found to exercise a powerful sway over persons 
of strong feeling and vivid fancy. When the mind is 
highly excited in pursuit of a particular object, or the 
heart deeply interested in an individual, a thousand 
vague notions haunt the thoughts. Omens and presenti- 
ments, every shadow which whispers of coming events, 
every emotion which appears to indicate the future^ 
is eagerly dwelt upon and magnified. Perhaps such 
developments are the natural offspring of great sensi- 
bility. They are certainly often found in combination 
with rare powers of intellect and great force of character. 
Few men more freely acknowledged their influence than 
Lord Byron. In his case they may have been, in some 
degree, hereditary. His mother was credulous in the 
extreme and had the' folly to take her son to a fortune- 
teller. He planted a tree to flourish by at Newstead,, 
and found it, after a long absence, neglected and weedy. 
He stole a bead amulet from an ill-defined faith in its 
efficacy. The day after writing his fine apostrophe to 
Parnassus, he saw a flight of eagles, and hailed the inci- 
dent as a proof that Apollo was pleased. When leaving 
Venice, after he had put on his cap and taken his cane, 
having previously embarked his effects, an inauspicious 
mood overtook him, and he gave orders that if all was 
not ready before one o'clock, to postpone the journey. 
He re-called a gift because itbe-tokened ill-luck>and turn- 



BYRON. 169 

ed back from a visit upon remembering that it was Friday. 
He even sent back a coat which a tailor brought him on 
that day, and yet, with true poetic inconsistency, sailed 
for Greece on Friday. He cherished the most melan- 
choly associations in regard to the anniversaries of his birth 
and marriage, and had many strange views of the fate of 
an only child. But the most remarkable among Byron's 
many superstitious ideas, was his strong presentiment of 
an early death. This feeling weighed upon him so 
heavily that he delayed his departure from Ravenna 
week after week, in the hope of dissipating so sad a feel- 
ing before engaging in his Grecian expedition ; and 
when stress of weather obliged him to return to port, he 
spoke of the " bad beginning" as ominous. In short, he 
acknowledged that he sometimes believed " aU things de- 
pend upon fortune and nothing upon ourselves." How 
far this tendency to fatalism influenced his conduct it 
would be difficult to ascertain. But opinions of this na- 
ture, grafted upon a constitutional liability to depression, 
certainly help to explain many of the anomalies of By- 
ron's character. 

The physical infirmities of the poet have never been 
sufficiently considered. No one can read his account of 
his own sensations without feeling that he was seldom in 
health. They are not the only sufferers who labour under 
specific diseases, the ravages of which are obvious to the 
eye. There is a vast amount of pain and uneasiness, 
even of a corporeal nature, which is not ranked among 
the legitimate " ills that flesh is heir to." In nervous 
persons particularly, how numerous are the trials for 
which science has discovered no remedy. He used to 
*' fatigue himself into spirits ;" and always rose in a mel- 
ancholy humour ; and constantly talks of being " hip- 
pish" and of his liver being toached, and of having an 
" old feel" He fancied that like Swift he should " die 
10-^ 



170 THOUGHTS ON THE POETS. 

at the top," but unlike the Dean, he professed no dread of 
insanity, but declared " a quiet stage of madness prefera- 
ble to reason." The withered trees on the Alps reminded 
him of his family. Often in the presence of the woman 
he loved, he longed for the solitude of his study. His 
restlessness, his frequent and rash variations of habits ; 
his wild course of diet, on certain anniversaries eating 
ham and drinking ale, thou^rh thev never agreed with 
him, and then for weeks living upon biscuit and soda- 
water ; his inclinations for violent exercises and craving 
for stimulants, indicate what a victim he was to morbid 
sensations. Could we realize the suffering incident to 
such a constitution, preyed upon as it was by an irritable 
mind and desponding temper, how much should we find 
to forgive in the poet's career! We cannot but agree 
with one of his biographers, that his excesses *' arose from 
carelessness and pride rather than taste." We must bear 
in mind that he never lost a friend, or cherished his 
resentments; and take in view^ that singular blindness 
which rendered him skeptical as to all literary influence 
upon character which prompted him to ask, " Who was 
ever altered by a poem ?" His charities were extensive ; 
his philanthropic aims sincere and noble. " Could I 
have anticipated," he says " the degree of attention which 
has been accorded me, I would have studied more to de- 
serve it." 

When we attempt to group together the trials of Byron, 
physical and moral, we find an array which claims, not 
indeed justification, but allowance for his errors. The 
weakness of her character to whose guidance his child- 
hood was committed, her ungovernable temper, his lame- 
ness, the indiflference of his guardian, the homeless years 
he passed between Cambridge and London, his isolated 
position upon first entering the House of Commons, the 
ill-accordance of his pecuniary means with his rank, the 



BYRON. 171 

unjust criticism that his first early efforts elicited, his re- 
turn after two years' travel to encounter bereavements, 
which induced him to write — "at three and twenty I am 
left alone, without a hope, almost without a desire ; oth^r 
men can take refuge in their families, I have no resource 
but my own reflections ;" and, to crown all, his unfortu- 
nate marriage and the social persecution he endured ; 
his long siege of bailiffs and domestic spies — make up a 
catalogue of troubles which might have driven a meeker 
being into despairing error. But he was acquainted 
through the whole of his brief life with a grief which, 
however the cynic and the sage may sneer, was to him a 
real and wasting sorrow. His affections craved an object 
which was never granted them. His frequent allusion to 
his boyish love, his regrets over that dream when " both 
were young and one was beautiful," his capricious am- 
ours on the continent, mingled with the ardent longings 
with which his poetry overflows, prove him to have been 
a devotee of that " faith whose martyrs are a broken 
heart." This unsatisfied love was a fountain of tender 
desire in his bosom, which fertilized and softened his effu- 
sions, and to which is ascribable their most pathetic 
touches. It is in seeking an " ocean for the river of his 
thoughts" that he bears so many hearts along in the rash 
bewildering emotion. 

The poetry of Byron is the result of passion and re- 
flection. He is not so much a creator as a painter, and 
his pictures are drawn from feeling and thought rather 
than nicety of observation. " I can't furbish," says one 
of his letters. " I am like the tiger, if I miss the first 
spring, I go grumbling back to my jungle." He 
gives us, as it were, the sensation of a place or a 
passion. Take, for instance, such epithets as " the blue 
rushing of the arrowy Rhone," and "battle's magnifi- 



172 THOUGHTS ON THE POETS. 

cently-stern array " — how vividly do they make us sen- 
sible of the scenes described ! He says " high mountains 
are a feeling;" everything in the universe and in life 
which appealed to his sympathies was to him a feeling. 
It was scarcely allegorical for him to call himself " a por- 
tion of the tempest," or to exclaim, 

" 1 live not in myself, but I become a portion of that around 
lie !" 

■It seems, therefore, very irrational for the admirers of 
a more calm and descriptive class of poets to moralise 
over Byron's feverish style, as if poetry was not subject 
to the laws of mental development. He might, indeed, 
have refrained from writing or publishing, but the condi- 
tion upon which alone his mind could gush forth in poe- 
try, was that its fruits should bear the qualities of the 
man. He was remarkably susceptible to immediate im- 
pressions, of a melancholic disposition and earnest feel- 
ings; and these traits of character necessarily coloured 
his poetry ; indeed it owes to them its distinguishing 
beauties. Through them he was placed in that intimate 
relation with what he saw that enabled him to give us 
the fervid and stirring impressions of Childe Harold ; to 
address with the eloquence of profound sympathy, Parnas- 
sus and Waterloo, Greece and Lake Leman, Rome and 
the Ocean, the Apollo and Solitude, the Stars and the 
Dying Gladiator. " I could not," he says, " write upon 
anything without some personal experience for a founda- 
tion." 

The career of this impetuous, but in more than one 
sense, noble being, is traced in his works most clearly. 
The very poems whose influence is deemed so baneful, 
have a moral eloquence few homilies can boast. What 
lesson has human life so impressive as the wanderings of 
genius reflected in its creations ? Turn from the elevated 
beauty of Byron's effusions written in Switzerland, amid 
that exalting air and scenery, when Shelley, as he used to 



BYRON. 173 

say, " dosed him with Wordsworth," to the flippant and 
low rhymes, strung together in the intervals of dissipa- 
tion at Venice ; read the outpourings of his soul in the 
pensive hour of solitary reminiscence, and the bitter lines 
provoked by resentful emotion; contemplate a glowing 
description caught from deep communion with some scene 
of historical interest or natural grandeur, and the weak 
impromptu wrung from a day of ennui and self-disgust ; 
and can anything impart so powerful an impression of the 
transcendant worth of truth ? " O the pity of it, the pity 
of it !" we exclaim with the Moor ; and just in proportion 
as we admire the strength of the wing that bears us 
through the realms of song, do we feel the misery of 
every unworthy flight. In the same degree that we 
sympathise with genius do we contemn the darkness 
which shrouds from view " the unreached paradise of its 
despair." If to some weak minds the errors of high 
natures are made venial by its gifts, to many of healthier 
tone they become thrice detestable, because of the bright- 
ness they mar. The antidote more frequently accompa- 
nies the bane than narrow moralists are willing to admit. 
It will not do to prescribe the style of poetic development. 
Its moral characteristics are indeed legitimate subjects of 
criticism, rebuke or praise ; but whether a bard's eflusions 
are passionate or calm, descriptive or metaphysical, fes- 
tive or sad, depends upon the spirit whence they spring. 
It is the nature of a willow to droop, and an oak to fling 
out its green branches sturdily to the gale. Byron, with 
his earnest temper, his undisciplined mind, his im- 
passioned heart, could not have written with the philoso- 
phic quietude of Wordsworth. It is absurd to lament 
that his verse is impassioned ; such was its legitimate 
form. And is there not an epoch of passion in every 
human life ? Is it not desirable that the poetry of that 
era should be written ? Cannot these men of even pulse 
and serene temper permit beings of a more enthusiastic 



174 THOUGHTS ON THE POETS. 

mood to have their poetic mirror also ? Byron represents 
an actual phase of the soul's life ; not its whole nor its 
highest experience, but still a real and most interesting 
portion of its development. He is not the unnatural 
painter which many critics would fain make him. In 
many a youthful heart do his truest appeals find an im- 
mediate response. Even the misanthropy with which 
his writings are imbued is not all morbid and undesira- 
ble. How much is there of lofty promise in the very dis- 
content he utters ! How does it whisper of desires too 
vast for time, of aspirations which pleasure and fame 
cannot satisfy. How often does it reveal an infinite ne- 
cessity for love, an eternal tendency to progress ! Mis- 
anthrophy has its poetry as well as pleasure ; and the 
eloquent complaints of Byron have brought home to 
countless hearts a deeper conviction of the absolute need 
of truth and self-respect than any logical argument. If 
a few shallow imitators are silly enough to turn down 
their collars and drink gin, there is another class who 
mentally exclaim as they read Byron — " What infinite 
longings are these ! what sensibility to beauty ! what 
capacities of suffering! how fatal is error to such a 
being ! let me, of kindred clay, look earnestly for a lofty 
faith, a safe channel for passion, a serene haven for 
thought !" The poet's torch is not always a meteor, 
alluring only to betray, but a beacon-light warning the 
lover of genius from the rocks and quick-sands which 
made him desolate. Besides, enough confidence is not 
felt in the native sense and just sentiments of readers. 
Can we not yield our hearts to the thrilling address to 
Lake Leman without being pledged thereby to adopt the 
creed of Don Juan ? Can we not accept Byron's tribute 
to the Venus and Dying Gladiator without approving his 
bacchanal orgies at Newstead? May we not enjoy the 
wild freedom of the Corsair, without emulating the ex- 
ample of the hero " of one virtue and a thousand crimes "? 



MOORE 



Poetry seems as capricious in her alliances as opinion. 
She is as frequently wedded to gladness as to gloom. 
When we recall the fortunes and character of her vota- 
ries, it seems impossible that an element so peculiar 
should co-exist with such opposite tendencies of mind 
and traits of feeling. Like the mysterious combinations 
of light, which yields a verdant gloom to the cypress, and 
a rosy hue to the cloud, with one lucent effluence pro- 
ducing innumerable tints, the spirit of poetry assimilates 
with every variety of human sentiment, from the deepest 
shadows of misanthropy to the freshest bloom of delight. 
She elevated the stern will of Dante into grandeur, and 
softened the passion of Laura's lover into grace. In 
some buoyant child of the south, she appears like a play- 
ful nymph, crowned with roses; and breathes over a 
northern harp like an autumn wind sighing through a 
forest of pines. She brooded with melancholy wildness 
over the soul of Byron, and scattered only flowers in the 
path of Metastasio. Alternately she wears the compla- 
cent smile of an Epicurean and the cold frown of a stoic. 
Now she seems a blessing, and now a bane ; inspires one 
with heroism, and enervates another with delight ; some- 
times reminds us of the ocean, waywardly heaving a hap- 
less barque, and again wears the semblance of a peaceful 
stream, in whose clear waters the orbs of heaven seem to 
slumber. Thus poetry follows the universal law of con- 



176 THOUGHTS ON THE POETS. 

trast, and is true to the phases of life. She not only 
reflects the different orders of character, but the change- 
ful moods of each individual ; appeals to every class of 
sympathies, and adapts herself to every peculiarity of ex- 
perience. She has an echo for our glee, and an accom- 
paniment for our sadness ; she can exalt the reverie of 
the philosopher, and glorify the lover's dreams ; kneel 
v^^ith the devout, and swell the mirth of the banquet ; at- 
une the solemn harmony of a Milton, and the melodious 
sweetness of a Moore. 

With the prevailing thoughtfulness that belongs to 
British poetry, it is striking to contrast the brilliancy of 
Moore. He seems to bring the vivacious and kindly ge- 
nius of his country, with an honest and cheerful pride, 
into the more stately ranks of the English minstrels. His 
sparkling conceits and sentimental luxury have a south- 
ern flavour. They breathe of pleasure. Even when 
pathetic their influence is the same, for grief is robbed of 
its poignancy and soothed into peace. The severity of 
thought, the strain of high excitement, the tumult of pas- 
sion, are alike avoided. We are not carried to the misty 
heights of contemplation, nor along the formal paths of 
detail ; but are left to saunter through balmy meadows 
or repose in delicious groves. If sometimes a painful 
idea is evolved, a musical rhyme or bright image at once 
harmonizes the picture. We are seldom permitted to 
realise the poem, so constantly is maintained the idea of 
the song. An impression such as the voluntary numbers 
of the troubadour convey, like the overflowing of a light- 
some yet imaginative spirit, continually pervades us. No 
wrestling with the great mysteries of being, no studied 
attempts to reach the height of some " great argument," 
characterize the song of Moore, but a melodious dalliance 
with memory and hope, a gay or pensive flight above the 
toilsome and the actual into the free domain of romance. 



MO ORE 



177 



With all these attractions, the poetry of Moore is in 
no small degree artificial. The highest, as well as the 
most touching song, is undoubtedly that which springs 
warmly from the poet's life and emotions. This is, with- 
out doubt, the case with many of the effusions of the 
bard of Erin ; on the other hand, we frequently meet in 
his pages with gems brought from afar, beauties that ob- 
viously have been garnered, rather than naturally sug- 
gested. Lalla Rookh, for instance, is the result of the 
author's gleanings amid the traditions and natural history 
of the East. His treasures are used, indeed, with con- 
summate skill, and no process but the meditative work- 
ings of a glowing mind could have blended them into 
pictures of such radiant beauty. Still, it is well to feel 
the distinction which obtains between the poetry of the 
artist and the poetry of the man. It argues no ordinary 
facility and creativeness, for a minstrel to deliberately 
plan a work, as an architect does a temple ; and then, 
having collected the materials of the fabric, proceed to 
rear a harmonious and delightful structure. But there 
is a process in the art more divine than this. It is that 
of the bard who obeys, like a prophet, the call of inspira- 
tion, utters chiefly what his own heart pleads to express, 
and throws into his poem the sincere teachings of his in- 
most life. In such poetry there is a spell of no transient 
power. It comes home to our highest experience. It is 
eminently suggestive. Like the echo of the mountains, 
it is full of lofty intimations. To this species of poetry 
Moore has but slightly contributed. His general tone is 
comparatively superficial. Fancy is his great character- 
istic. This is the quality which gives such a sparkling 
grace to his verse. Like the corruscations of frost-work and 
the phosphorescence of the sea, his fanciful charms play 
around and fascinate us ; they give a zest to the passing 
hour, and kindle bright illusions in the monotonous cir- 



178 THOUGHTS ON THE POETS. 

cuit of existence ; but they seldom beam with the serene 
and enduring light of the stars. Moore is too much the 
creature of social and fashionable life to attain the high- 
est range of Parnassus. He is necessarily, to some de- 
gree, conventional. His associations rarely transcend 
the present and prevailing in thought. In the Vale of 
Cashmere he does not forget the " mirror," and amid the 
' light of other days," his memory is busy with the 
' banquet hall." Moore especially deserves the title 
of accomplished. He is no rough ploughman, with 
nothing but the hills and firmament, a rustic charmer or a 
crushed daisy, to awaken his muse ; he is no discontented 
peer, seeking in foreign adventure freedom from social 
shackles ; but a cordial gentleman, ever ready with his 
pleasant repartee and his graceful song. He appears to 
equal advantage at the literary dinner and in the fashion- 
able drawing-room ; as a guide through the delicious 
labyrinths of oriental romance, and a companion at the 
festive board ; as a poet, a friend, and a man of the world. 
He is one of those men who seem born to ornament as 
well as to delight ; to give a new grace to pleasure and 
an imaginative glow to social life. There is room for 
constant discrimination in estimating Moore. He has 
written a mass of verses which are of temporary interest, 
and of so little merit that we cannot choose but wonder 
that he should annex them to his more finished produc- 
tions. " Lalla Rookh" and the " Loves of the Angels" 
are the best of his long compositions, and of these the 
beautiful episode of " Paradise and the Peri" bears the 
most brilliant traces of his genius. His fame, however, 
will doubtless rest eventually on the " Melodies." It is 
to be regretted that so many evidences of hasty and casu* 
al impressions, at once immature and injudicious, should 
appear among the gems of such a minstrel. His notices 
of this country, for instance, founded on the most mea- 



MOORE. 179 

gre observation, are scarcely worthy of a liberal mind ; 
and had the poet conscientiously examined the causes of 
the revolutionary failure of the Neapolitans, he would 
not have had the heart to write of a people so much 
" more sinned against than sinning," so cruel an anathe- 
ma as, " Ay, down to the dust with them, slaves as they 
are." The metaphors of this poet admirably illustrate 
his power of fancy, indicated in the felicitous comparison 
of natural facts to moral qualities. In one of his dinner 
speeches, complimenting his hearers on their superiority 
to party malevolence, he says their " noble natures, in the 
worst of times, would come out of the conflict of public 
opinion, like pebbles out of the ocean, more smooth and 
more polished by the very agitation in which they had been 
revolving." And on the same occasion, speaking of By- 
ron's disposition " to wander only among the ruins of the 
heart," he says that " like the chestnut tree that grows 
best in volcanic soils, he luxuriates most where the confla- 
gration of passion has left its mark." Joyful moments 
in the midst of misery he compares to 

" those verdant spots that bloom 

Around the crater's burning lips, 
Sweetening the very edge of doom." 

Among numerous similar examples are the following : 

" In every glance there broke, without control. 
The flashes of a bright but troubled soul, 
Where sensibility still wildly played, 
Like lightning round the ruins it had made.^^ 

" Oh, colder than the wind that freezes 
Founts, that but now in sunshine played, 

Is that congealing pang which seizes 
The trusting bosom when betrayed." 



to see 



Those virtuous eyes forever turned on me 
And in their light re-chastened silently, 



180 THOUGHTS ON THE POETS. 

lAke the stained web that whitens in the sun, 
Grow pure by being purely shone upon.^* 

Music is a great element of Moore's poetry. How fevi 
have succeeded so well in softening the Teutonic jar of 
our language, and giving a flow to the verse and a ca- 
dence to the rhythm, like the liquid tongues of the south ! 
And what an ineffable charm has the melody given to his 
song ! He compares his verses to " flies preserved in 
amber." So beguiling is the greater portion of the mu- 
sic that we can scarcely give a calm examination to the 
poems with which it is indissolubly associated. In this re- 
spect Moore enjoys a signal advantage. There is an anec- 
dote of an ancient dame who refused to sanction the publi- 
cation of her deceased partner's sermons, " because they 
couldn't print the tone with them." In poetry, how much 
depends upon the reader's tone, both of voice and of mind ! 
How many noble pieces of vetse slumber in obscurity for 
want of an oral interpreter ! Elocutionary skill has re- 
vealed beauties in poetry of which even the author never 
dreamed. The sweetest of Moore's effusions are allied 
10 dehghtful music. Sense and soul are simultaneously 
addressed, and perhaps no modern bard has been more 
widely felt as well as acknowledged to be a poet. In 
the gay saloon, on the lonely sea, from the lips of the 
lady and the peasant, the student and the sailor, the lover 
and the hero, how often have breathed such airs as " The 
Meeting of the Waters," " Love's Young Dream," " Come 
rest in this bosom," " Oft in the Stilly Night," " Come, 
ye Disconsolate," " Sound the Loud Timbrel," " Mary's 
Tears," and others as familiar in bower and hall. Thou- 
sands have responded to the sentiment of Byron : 

" Were't the last drop in the well, 

As I gasped upon the brink, 
Ere my fainting spirit fell, 

'T is to thee that I would drink. 



MOORE. ISl 

** In that water, as this wine, 

The libation I would pour 
Should be — Peace to thine and mine, 

And a health to thee, Tom Moore /" 

There is certainly something real and grateful in such 
fame, and it is not surprising that Moore declares he has 
no idea of poetry, disconnected with music. 

The national associations connected with the poetry of 
Moore greatly enhance its attractions. As the bard of a 
depressed but noble people, whose sufferings are only 
equalled by their heartiness and hardihoood, he claims 
universal sympathy. We cannot but remember that his 
strains breathe of a land so lovely and so impoverished 
that it has been aptly called Paradise Lost. In those 
touching melodies which seem to embalm the fresh soul 
of Erin in the days of her strength, what fervent appeals 
are there to every loyal and benevolent heart ! Indeed 
the very fact of gathering from the cotter's fireside, from 
moor and valley and sequestered glen, the wild and melt- 
ing notes of old Irish song, and wedding them to the lan- 
guage of modern refinement, strikes us as one of the most 
romantic enterprises of modern poetry. If an Italian 
painting, a Moorish fountain and an Egyptian pyramid 
affect us, as the surviving and beautiful memorials of a 
nation's better day, how much more should we recognize 
the eloquent and simple music of a distant era, in which 
the glow of love, patriotism and grief is yet warm and 
thrilling ! Not less in his personal traits than his muse 
does Moore illustrate his country ; his patriotism, convi- 
vial talents and kindly feelings are equally characteristic, 
As the popular bard of Ireland, his position is singularly 
desirable. He is not lost in a crowd of versifiers and 
associated with a local school, but strikes the imagination 
as the poetical representative of a great and unfortunate 
nation. With the groans that echo from her afflicted 
11 



182 THOUGHTS ON THE POETS. 

shores his notes of fancy and feeling mingle, to remind 
us of the high and warm traits of the Irish heart, and of 
the flowers of genius still blooming amid the gloom of 
her distress. Well may he sing — 

'* Dear harp of my country ! in darkness I found thee ! 

The cold chain of silence had hung o'er thee long. 
When proudly, my own Island harp ! I unbound thee. 

And gave all thy chords to light, freedom and song !'* 



ROGERS 



Such a quiet attribute as taste is not very efficient at a 
period like the present. And yet it is one of those qual- 
ities which go far toward perpetuating a poem as well as 
a statue or painting. We are now so accustomed to look 
for the rare and striking in literature, that the very prin- 
ciple which harmonizes and stamps with enduring beauty 
the effusions of mind, is scarcely appreciated. It is 
chiefly to the past that we must look for poetic taste. 
Recent bards have but seldom done justice to the form 
and manner of their writings. There is something, 
however, in a refined style and tasteful execution not un- 
worthy the highest genius. It is due at least to that 
magic vehicle of ideas which we call language, that it 
should be wrought and polished into a shape fitted to en- 
shrine the glowing image and the lofty thought. Many 
a work, the sentiment of which is without significance in 
this busy age, continues to delight from its artistical ex- 
cellence, and much of the literature of the day, that 
bears the impress of genius, is destined to speedy oblivion, 
from its unfinished and ill-constructed diction. There is 
no little scope for sweet fancy and delicate feeling in the 
use of language. Not in his ideas and figures alone 
is the poet manifest. Indeed, it is as rare to find a good 
artist in the sphere of words and sentences as in that of 
marble and colours. Some ingenious philosophers have 
pointed out analogies between styles of writing and char- 



184 THOUGHTS ON THE POETS. 

acter, which suggest a much more delicate relation 
between the mind and its verbal expression than we gen- 
erally suppose. Taste is no minor element of poetry; 
and the want of it has often checked the musical flow of 
gifted spirits, and rendered their development wholly 
unattractive. The epithet healthy has been applied w^th 
great meaning to a book. Of the same efficacy is taste 
in poetic efforts. It renders them palatable and engaging, 
it wins our regard immediately, and gives double zest to 
the more imposing charms of the work. It is like a fine 
accompaniment in music ; the sentiment of the song is 
heightened, and we cannot thenceforth even read it with- 
out a peculiar association of pleasure. Rogers is distin- 
guished by no quality more obviously than that of taste. 
His general characteristics are not very impressive or 
startling. There are few high reflective beauties, such as 
win reverence for the bard of Rydal Mount, and scarcely 
an inkling of the impassioned force of Childe Harold. 
We are not warmed in his pages, by the lyric fire of 
Campbell, or softened by the tender rhapsodies of Bums ; 
and yet the poetry of Rogers is very pleasing. It gains 
upon the heart by gentle encroachments. It commends 
itself by perfect freedom from rugged, strained and un- 
skilful versification. It is, for the most part, so flowing 
and graceful that it charms us unaware. Without bril- 
liant flashes or luxuriant imagery, it is still clear, free 
and harmonious. It succeeds by virtue of simplicity, by 
unpretending beauty ; in a word, by the genuine taste 
which guides the poet, both in his eye for the beautiful, 
and the expression of his feelings. Great ideas are not 
often encountered in his poems, but purity of utterance 
and a true refinement of sentiment everywhere abound. 

There is perhaps no Englishman who, by such univer- 
sal consent, is more worthy the appellation of a man of 
lase. This tone of mind is the more remarkable, inas- 



ROGERS. 185 

much as it has no connection with professional life. The 
ostensible pursuit of Mr. Rogers has no reference to his 
intellectual bias, except in having furnished him the 
means of mental gratification. Like his transatlantic 
prototype in the brotherhood of song, a good portion of 
his life is, or has been, 

— *' to life's coarse service sold, 
Where thought lies barren, and nought breeds but gold " 

His taste is the spontaneous and native quality of a re- 
fined mind. It has made him a discriminating collector 
of literary treasures and trophies of art, the liberal patron 
of struggling genius, the correspondent of the gifted and 
the renowned, and the centre of a circle where wit and 
wisdom lend wings to time. It is in contemplating such 
a life as this that the most philosophic and unworldly 
may. be forgiven for breathing a sigh for that wealth, 
which a cultivated man can thus render the source of 
such noble enjoyment. And yet the very feeling that 
such an example awakens is an evidence of its rarity. 
How seldom in a mercantile community do we find for- 
tune associated with taste, a competence with a mind 
able to enjoy and improve leisure, the means of dis- 
pensing worthy delight, with a benevolent and judicious 
character ! An exception to the prevailing rule is pre- 
sented by our poet ; and even those who have not parti- - 
cipated in his elegant hospitality and graceful compan- 
ionship, may realize that pervading taste whence is de- 
rived their peculiar charm, by communing with the mind 
of the classic banker, in the sweet effusions of his muse. 
The excellent taste of Rogers is exhibited in his sim- 
plicity. He does not seek for that false effect which is 
produced by laboured epithets and unusual terms. He is 
content to use good Saxon phraseology, and let his mean- 
ing appear through the transparent medium of common 
but appropriate words. He recognizes the truth that dis- 
11* 



186 THOUGHTS ON THE POETS. 

tinct and clear enunciation of thought is the most beauti- 
ful, and that a writer's superiority is best evinced by the 
nice adaptation of language to sentiment. Obvious as 
such a principle is, there is none more commonly viola- 
ted by the more showy minstrels of this generation, who 
seem to place great reliance on a kind of verbal mysti- 
cism, a vagueness of speech which, upon examination, 
proves but the dazzling attire of commonplace ideas. In- 
stances of this simplicity are of frequent occurrence in 
the poems of Rogers. Their value is illustrated by the 
quiet emphasis of single lines, which, like "a masterly 
stroke of the pencil, appear so felicitous that no revision 
can improve them. A few random examples , will 
suffice — 

When nature pleased, for life itself was new, 
And the heart promised what the fancy drew. 

How oft, when purple evening tinged the west, 
We watched the emmet to her grainy nest. 
Welcomed the wild bee home on weary wing, 
Laden with sweets, the choicest of the spring ! 
How oft inscribed, with Friendship's votive rhyme. 
The bark now silvered by the touch of Time ; 
Soared in the swing, half pleased and half afraid. 
Through sister elms that waved their summer shade ; 
Or strewed with crumbs yon root-inwoven seat. 
To lure the redbreast from her lone retreat ! 

When pensive Twilight, in her dusky car. 
Comes slowly on to ineet the evening star 

Far from the joyless glare, the maddening strife. 
And all the dull impertinence of life. 

Mute is the bell that rung at peep of dawn, 
Quickening my truant feet across the lawn. 

But not fill Time has calmed the ruffled breast, 
And those fond dreams of happiness confest, 
JVot till the rushing winds forget to rave 
In Heaven's sweet smile refected on the wave. 



ROGERS 187 

With all due admiration for the loftier flights of the 
Muse, we cannot revert to the purer school of poetic dic- 
tion which Rogers represents, without a feeling of re- 
freshment. The simple, the correct, the clear and ner- 
vous style of versification has an intrinsic charm. The 
genuine taste in which it originates and to which it min- 
isters, is an instinct of refined natures. It is the same 
principle that makes a Grecian temple more truly admir- 
able in its chaste proportions and uniform tint, than all 
the brilliant hues and combinations of a Catholic church ; 
and renders a classic statue more pleasing and impres- 
sive than the most ingenious mechanism. And it is 
from the same cause that the paintings of the Roman and 
Tuscan schools leave more vivid traces on the memory 
than the gorgeous triumphs of Venetian art. By virtue 
of their confidence in the feeling or thought to be pre- 
sented, men o^ real taste are ever true to simplicity. 
They rely on the plain statement and the reader's imagi- 
nation, and produce by a single comparison or remark an 
impression which more elaborate terms would greatly 
weaken. For instance, when Rogers describes the sce- 
nery of the Alps, speaking of one of those pools that 
have so dark an appearance amid the surrounding white- 
ness, he says — 

.... in that dreary dale, 
If dale it might be called, so near to Heaven, 
A little lake, where never fish leaped up. 
Lay like a spot of ink arnid the snow ' 

How completely is a sense of the dreariness and ebon 
hue of these mountain ponds conveyed, and by what 
natural illustrations. The diminutive size of St. Helena 
is thus indicated — 

.... a rock so small, 
Amid the countless multitude of waves, 
That ships have gone and sought it, and returned^ 
Saying it was not. 



18S THOUGHTS ON THE POETS. 

The wild solitude of the convent of St. Bernard has been 
often described, as well as its awful place of sepulture. 
Do not these few lines give us a remarkably vivid idea of 
those who " perished miserably ?" 

.... Side by side. 
Within they lie, a mournful company. 
All in their shrouds, no earth to cover them. 
In the broad day, nor soon to suffer change. 
Through the barred windows, barred against the wolf. 
Are always open ! 

Speaking of the festive preparations on St. Mary's Eve, 
how expressive is this single circumstance — 

.... all arrived ; 
And in his straw the prisoner turned and listened. 
So great the stir in Venice. 

Whoever has visited that extraordinary city will feel that 
it is pictured by Rogers, not in the most glowing, yet in 
a style of graphic truth, which accords perfectly with the 
real scene — 

There is a glorious City of the Sea, 

The sea is in the broad, the narrow streets. 

Ebbing and flowing : and the salt sea-weed 

Clings to the marble of her palaces. 

No track of men, no footsteps to and fro. 

Lead to her gates. The path lies o'er the sea. 

Invisible ; and from the land we went 

As to a floating city — steering in. 

And gliding up her streets as in a-dream. 

So smoothly, silently — by many a dome 

Mosque-like, and many a stately portico. 

The statues ranged along an azure sky ; 

By many a pile of more than Eastern splendour. 

Of old the residence of merchant kings ; 

The fronts of some, though Time had shattered them. 

Still glowing with the richest hues of art. 

As though the wealth within them had run o'er. 

In an argument we have need of strong epithets, and 



ROGERS. 189 

to rouse men on an abstract theme, fervid appeals are un- 
avoidable, but in view of the marvels of art or the sub- 
limities of nature, what call is there for exaggeration ^ 
To the true soul is not the fact sufficient ? Can exple- 
tives and strained metaphors add to the native interest of 
such objects ? Are they not themselves poetry ? Is not 
the poet's office in relation to them, to give us as true a 
picture as may be, that }ve too may thrill with wonder or 
revel in beauty ? Even in portraying deep emotion our 
great dramatist was satisfied to place in Macdufl's 
mouth — " He has no children !" And it is equally true 
to human nature, for Rogers to speak of Ginevra's be- 
reaved father as — 

An old man wandering in quest of something, 
Something he could not find— he knew not what. 

Another evidence of the good judgment of Rogers may 
be found in the fact that he has published so little. It is 
the fashion to chide the authors of a few successful 
poems for their idleness. Some deem it a very pretty 
compliment to say of a poet that his only fault is that he 
has not written more. But such praise is equivocal, to 
say the least. It betrays a singular ignorance of the very 
nature of poetry, which may be defined as an art above 
the will. Doubtless if fine poems were as easily pro- 
duced as fine rail-roads, it would be incumbent on the 
makers thereof to be very industrious in their vocation. 
But as the activity of the fancy and the flow of thought 
are but occasionally felicitous, some degree of reverence 
should be accorded the poet who having once struck the 
lyre to a masterly strain, thenceforth meekly refrains from 
any rash meddling with its chords, without that authority 
which his own heart can alone vouchsafe. Occasional 
witticisms have been indulged in reference to the coyness 
and care with which the bard of Memory woos the Mu- 



190 THOUGHTS ON THE POETS. 

ses. To a delicate and considerate mind such a course 
approves itself far more than the opposite. How many- 
desirable reputations have been sacrificed to the morbid 
vanity of unceasing authorship ! The creative power of 
every intellect is limited, its peculiar vein is soon exhausted, 
ar^d its most ethereal powers may not be too frequently in- 
voked without vapid results. We have heard of an old 
lady who had a celebrated bishop to dine with her every 
Sunday, and invariably on these occasions, his worship 
inquired how her ladyship would have the punch made ; 
to which polite query, the good woman always gave the 
same judicious reply — " Make a little, bishop, bat make 
it goody Such a rule would often serve as well for poe- 
try as for punch. 

Rogers, in point of execution, belongs to the same cat- 
egory as Goldsmith. He has the requisite insight to 
copy from nature what is really adapted to poetical ob- 
jects, to harmonize and enliven his pencilings with genial 
sentiment, and finally to present them in a form that 
charms the ear and imagination. The spirit of his poe- 
try is not of the highest order. His talent is artistical 
rather than inventive. He is a clear delineator rather 
than a creative genius. A remarkable contrast is pre- 
sented by his "Italy" and the fourth canto of Childe 
Harold. The former gives us a just and sweet picture 
of <^he graces and griefs of that beautiful land, as they 
were reflected in the mind of an amiable man of taste ; 
the latter displays the same country, seen through the 
medium of an impassioned and self-occupied soul. 
Rogers looked upon the vale and river, the palace and 
the statue, the past and present associations of Italy, from 
the calm watch-tower of a serene consciousness ; Byron 
surveyed those scenes as a restless seeker for peace, with 
a mind too excited and unsatisfied not to mingle with and 
colour every fact and object with which it came in con- 
tact. There is a wild and melancholy beauty in Harold's 



ROGERS. 191 

musings that appeals to our deepest sympathy ; a repose 
and pleasurable calm in those of Rogers, that soothes and 
diverts us. Something of tragic impression and strong 
personal interest carries us along with Byron in his pil- 
grimage, while a quiet attachment and agreeable fellowship 
win us to follow the steps of Rogers. 

The blank verse of " Italy" is of a somewhat uncom- 
mon description. In English poetry, this species of me- 
tre has generally been written in a sustained and dignified 
manner, ;md some passages of Shakspere and Milton 
prove that there is no style so fitted for sublime effect. 
Rogers essayed to give a more easy and familiar con- 
struction to blank verse, and the attempt was remarkably 
successful. Occasionally the lines are prosaic, and scarce- 
ly elevated to the tone of legitimate verse ; but often 
there is a natural and sweet cadence which is worthy of 
the most harmonious bard. The example, too, has obvi- 
ously tended to chasten and render more simple the man- 
agement of this kind of verse. In this respect, Rogers 
has illustrated blank verse as Hunt has the heroic meas- 
ure. They have exemplified a less stilted and artificial 
use of poetic language. The poem of the former has, 
indeed, an epistolary character. It is precisely such a 
series of genial sketches as an artist might send his 
friends from a foreign country — light, graceful and true 
to nature, but pretending to no great or elaborate concep- 
tions. In this, as in his other efforts, Rogers is often some- 
what tame, and frequently lacks fire and point ; but the 
mass of what he has published is conceived and executed 
in such an unassuming and tasteful spirit, that the reader 
has no disposition to magnify his defects. His minor 
poems have a very unpretending air, and remind us 
somewhat of the " copies of verses" that cavaliers were 
accustomed to indite for the gratification of friend or mis- 
tress. The prettiest and most characteristic of theseoc 
casional poems is, perhaps, that entitled " A Wish." 



192 Thoughts on the poets. 

Mine be a cot beside the hill, 
A. bee-hive's hum to soothe my ear ; 
A willowy brook, that turns a mill. 
With many a fall shall linger near. 
The swallow oft beneath my thatch 
Shall twitter from her clay -built nest ; 
Oft shall the pilgrim lift the latch, 
And share my meal, a welcome guest, 
Around my ivied porch shall spring 
Each fragrant flower that drinks the dew ; 
And Lucy, at her wheel, shall sing 
In russet gown and apron blue. 
The village church among the trees. 
Where our first marriage vows were given. 
With merry peals shall swell the breeze, 
And point with taper spire to heaven. 

To Rogers we must accord a true moral feeling. The 
cordial friend, the man of native literary sympathies and 
domestic tastes, are ever reflected in his pages. He has 
a kindly and liberal heart as well as an intellectual spirit. 
There are more imposing names on the scroll of poetic 
fame, but few who have a better claim to love and respect 
He is not without a poet's ambition — 

Oh could my mind, unfolded in my page. 
Enlighten climes and mould a future age ; 
Oh could it still, through each succeeding year, 
My life, my manners and my name endear ! 

The latter aspiration has already met its fulfilment. The 
clearness and elegance, the quiet ardour and urbane sen- 
timent that appear in his verse, are too candid and win- 
ning not to excite interest. Our attachment to the higher 
and more affecting species of poetry does not militate 
with, but rather enhances our sympathy with the quiet 
graces of his muse. The delight with which we tread 
the sea-shore and listen to the dashing billows, does not 
prevent us from reposing with pleasure beside the calm 
lake, to watch the clouds reflected in its bosom, or the 
ilowers that hang their fragrant urns around its brink. 



BUKN S. 



Theke are certain sentiments which " give the world 
assurance of a man." They are inborn, not acquired. 
Before them fade away the trophies of scholarship and 
the badges of authority. They are the most endearing 
of human attractions. No process of culture, no mere 
grace of manner, no intellectual endowments, can atone 
for their absence, or successfully imitate their charms. 
These sentiments redeem our nature ; their indulgence 
constitutes the better moments of life. Without them we 
grow mechanical in action, formal in manner, pedantic in 
mind. With them in freshness and vigour, we are true, 
spontaneous, morally alive. We reciprocate affection, we 
luxuriate in the embrace of nature, we breathe an atmos- 
phere of love, and glow in the light of beauty. Frank- 
ness, manly independence, deep sensibility and pure 
enthusiasm are the characteristics of the true man. 
Against these fashion, trade and the whole train of petty 
interests wage an unceasing war. In few hearts do they 
survive ; but wherever recognized, they carry every 
unperverted soul back to childhood and up to God. They 
vindicate human nature with irresistible eloquence, and 
like the air of mountains and the verdure of valleys, allure 
us from the thoroughfare of routine and the thorny path 
of destiny. When combined with genius, they utter an 
appeal to the world, and their possessor becomes a priest 
of humanity, whose oracles send forth an echo even from 



194 THOUGHTS ON THE POETS. 

the chambers of death. Such is Robert Burns. How 
refreshing to turn from the would-be-prophets of the day, 
and contemplate the inspired ploughman ! No mystic 
emblems deform his message. We have no hieroglyph- 
ics to decipher. We need no philosophic critic at our 
elbow. It is a brother who speaks to us ; — no singular 
specimen of spiritual pride, but a creature of flesh and blood. 
We can hear the beatings of his brave heart, not always 
like a " muflied drum," but often with the joy of solemn 
victory. We feel the grasp of his toil-hardened hand. 
We see the pride on his brow, the tear in his eye, the 
smile on his lip. We behold not an effigy of buried 
learning, a tame image from the mould of fashion, but a 
free, cordial, earnest man; — one Avith whom we can 
roam the hills, partake the cup, praise the maiden, or 
worship the stars. He is a human creature, only over- 
flowing with the characteristics of humanity. To him 
belong in large measure the passions and the powers of 
his race. He professes no exemption from the common 
lot. He pretends not to live on rarer elements. He 
expects not to be ethereal before death. He conceals not 
his share of frailty, nor turns aside from penance. He 
takes ' with equal thanks a sermon or a song.' No one 
prays more devoutly ; but the same ardour fires his 
earthly loves. The voice that " wales a portion with 
judicious care," anon is attuned to the convivial song. — 
The same eye that glances with poetic awe upon the 
hills at twilight, gazes with a less subdued fervour on the 
winsome features of the highland lassie. And thus 
vibrated the poet's heart from earth to heaven, — from the 
human to the godlike. Rarely and richly were mingled 
in him the elements of human nature. His crowning 
distinction is a larger soul ; and this he carried into all 
things, — to the altar of God and the festive board, to the 
ploughshare's furrow and the letter of friendship, to the 



BURNS. 195 

martial lyric and the lover's assignation. That such a 
soul should arise in the midst of poverty is a blessing. 
So do men learn that all their appliances are as nothing 
before the creative energy of Nature. They may make 
a Parr ; she alone can give birth to a Burns. It is to be 
rejoiced at that so noble a brother was born in a " clay- 
built cottage." Had his eyes first opened in a palace, so 
great a joy would not have descended upon the lowly and 
the toil-worn. These can now more warmly boast of a 
common lineage. Perchance, too, that fine spirit would 
have been meddled with till quite undone, had it first 
appeared in the dwelling of a wealthy citizen. Books 
and teachers, perhaps, would have subdued its elastic 
freedom, — artificial society perverted its heaven-born fire. 
Better that its discipline was found in " labour and 
sorrow" rather than in social restraint and conformity. 
Better that it erred through excess of passion, than de- 
liberate hypocrisy. So rich a stream is less marred by 
overflowing its bounds than by growing shallow. It was 
nobler to yield to temptation from wayward appetite than 
through " malignity or design." More worthy is it that 
melancholy should take the form of a sad sympathy with 
nature, than a bitter hatred of man ; that the flowers of the 
heart should be blighted by the heat of its lava-soil, than 
wither in the deadening air of artificial life. Burns lost 
not the susceptibility of his conscience or the sincerity and 
manliness of his character. In a higher sphere of life, these 
characteristics would have been infinitely more exposed. 

The muse of Burns is distinguished by a pensive 
tenderness. His mind was originally of a reflective 
cast. His education, destiny and the scenery amid which 
he lived deepened this trait, and made it prevailing. — - 
True sensibility is the fertile source of sadness. A heart 
constantly alive to the vicissitudes of life and the pathetic 
appeals of nature, cannot long maintain a lightsome 
mood. From his profound feeling sprang the beauties of 



196 THOUGHTS ON THE POETS. 

the Scottish bard. He who could so pity a wounded 
hare and elegize a crushed daisy, whose young bosom 
favourites were Sterne and Mackenzie, lost not a single 
sob of the storm, nor failed to mark the gray cloud and 
the sighing trees. In this intense sympathy with the 
mournful, exists the germ of true poetical elevation. 
The very going out into the vastly sad, is sublime. Per- 
sonal cares are forgotten ; and as Byron calls upon us to 
forget our " petty misery" in view of the mighty ruins of 
Rome, so the dirges of Nature invite us into a grand 
funereal hall, where mortal sighs are lost in mightier wail- 
ing. This element of pensiveness distinguishes alike 
the poetry and character of Burns. He tells us of the 
exalted sensations he experienced on an autumn morning, 
when listening to the cry of a troop of gray plover or the 
solitary whistle of the curlew. The elements raged 
around him as he composed Bannockburn, and he loved 
to write at night, or during a cloudy day, being most 
successful in " a gloamin' shot at the muses." 

There was a thorough and pervading honesty about 
Burns, — that freedom from disguise and simple truth of 
character, to the preservation of which rustic life is emi- 
nently favourable. He was open and frank in social in- 
tercourse, and his poems are but the sincere records and 
outpourings of his native feelings. 

Just now I've ta'en the fit o' rhyme, 
My barmie noddle's working prime 
My fancy yerkit up sublime 

Wi' hasty summon ; 
Hae ye a leisure-moment's time 

To hear what's comin ? 

Hence he almost invariably wrote from strong emotion. 
" My passions," he says, " raged like so many devils un- 
til they found vent in rhyme." This entire truthfulness 
is one of the greatest charms of his verse. For the most 



BURNS. 197 

part, song, satire and lyric come warm from his heart. 
Insincerity and pretension completely disgusted him. 
Scarcely does he betray the slightest impatience of his fel- 
lows, except in exposing and ridiculing these traits. Holy 
Willie's prayer and a few similar effusions were penned 
as protests against bigotry and presumption. Burns was 
too devotional to bear calmly the abuses of religion. 

God knows, I'm not the thing I should be. 

Nor am I even the thing I could be. 

But twenty times, I rather would be. 
An' atheist clean. 

Than under Gospel colours hid be. 
Just for a screen, 

But satire was not his element. Rather did he love to 
give expression to benevolent feeling and generous affec- 
tion. The native liberality of his nature cast a mantle 
of charity over the errors of his kind, in language which, 
for touching simplicity, has never been equalled. 

Then gently scan your brother man 

Still gentler sister woman ; 
Tho' they may gang a kennin wrang ; 

To step aside is human : 
One point must still be greatly dark, 

The moving ivhy they do it : 
And just as lamely can ye mark, 

How far perhaps they rue it. 

Wha made the heart, 'tis he alone 

Decidedly can try us, 
He knows each chord — its various tone. 

Each spring, its various bias : 
Then at the balance let's be mute, 

We never can adjust it ; 
What's done we partly may compute, 

But know not what's resisted. 

Burns had a truly noble soul. He cherished an hon- 
est pride. Obligation oppressed him, and with all his 
rusticity he firmly maintained his dignity in the polished 
12 



198 THOUGHTS ON THE POETS. 

circles of Edinburgh. Like all manly hearts, while he 
Keenly felt the sting of poverty, his whole nature recoiled 
from dependence. He desired money, not for the distinc- 
tion and pleasure it brings, but chiefly that he might be 
free from the world. He recorded the creed of the true 



To catch dame Fortune's golden smile, 

Assiduous wait upon her ; 
And gather gear by ev'ry wile 

That's justified by honour ; 
Not for to hide it in a hedge, 

Not for a train-attendant ; 
But for the glorious privilege 

Of being independent. 

His susceptibility to Nature was quick and impassioned. 
He hung with rapture over the hare- bell, fox-glove, bud- 
ding birch and hoary hawthorn. Though chiefly alive 
to its sterner aspects, every phase of the universe was in- 
expressibly dear to him. , 

Nature ! a' thy shows an' forms 

To feeling, pensive hearts hae charms ! 

Whether the simmer kindly warms, 

Wi' life an' light. 
Or winter howls, in gusty storms. 

The lang, dark night ! 

How delightful to see the victim of poverty and care thus 
yield up his spirit in blest oblivion of his lot ! He walkea 
beside the river, climbed the hill and wandered over the 
moor, with a more exultant step and more bounding heart 
than ever conqueror knew. In his hours of sweet reve- 
rie, all consciousness was lost of outward poverty, in the 
richness of a gifted spirit. Then he looked upon crea- 
tion as his heritage. He felt drawn to her by the glow- 
ing bond of a kindred spirit. Fvery wild-flower from 
which he brushed the dew, every mountain-top to which 
his eyes were lifted, every star that smiled upon his path, 



BURNS. 199 

was a token and a pledge of immortality. He partook 
of tHeir freedom and their beauty ; and held fond com- 
munion with their silent loveliness. The banks of the 
Doon became like the bowers of Paradise, and Mossgiel 
was as a glorious kingdom. 

Gie me ae spark o' Nature's fire, 
That's a' the learning I desire ; 
Then tho' I drudge thro' dub an' mire 

At pleugh or cart. 
My muse, tho' hamely in attire. 

May touch the heart. 

That complete self-abandonment, characteristic of poets, 
belonged strikingly to Burns. He threw himself, all sen- 
sitive and ardent as he was, into the arms of Nature. 
He surrendered his heart unreservedly to the glow of 
social pleasure, and sought with equal heartiness the 
peace of domestic retirement. 

But why o' death begin a tale ? 

Just now we're living sound and hale. 

Then top and maintop crowd the sail, 

Heave care o'er side ! 
And large, before enjoyment's gale. 

Let's tak the tide. 

This life has joys for you and I, 
And joys that riches ne'er could buy, 

And joys the very best. 
There's a' the pleasures o' the heart. 

The lover and the frien; 
Ye hae your Meg, your dearest part. 

And I my darling Jean ! 

He sinned, and repented, with the same singleness of 
purpose, and completeness of devotion. This is illus- 
trated in many of his poems. In his love and grief, in 
his joy and despair, we find no medium; — 

By passion driven ; 
And yet the light that led astray 
Was light from heaven 



200 THOUGHTS ON THE POETS. 

Perhaps the freest and deepest element of the poetry of 
Burns, is love. With the first awakening of this passion 
in his youthful breast, came also the spirit of poetry. 
" My heart," says one of his letters, " was complete tin- 
der, and eternally lighted up by some goddess or other." 
He was one of those susceptible men to whom love is no 
fiction or fancy ; to whom it is not only a " strong ne- 
cessity," but an overpowering influence. To female 
attractions he was a complete slave. An eye, a tone, a 
grasp of the hand, exercised over him the sway of des- 
tiny. His earliest and most blissful adventures were 
following in the harvest with a bonnie lassie, or picking 
nettles out of a fair one's hand. He had no armour of 
philosophy wherewith to resist the spell of beauty. Ge- 
nius betrayed rather than absolved him; and his soul 
found its chief dehght and richest inspiration in the 
luxury of loving. 

happy love ! where love like this is found; 
O heart-felt raptures ! bliss beyond compare ! 

I've paced much this weary mortal round, 
And sage experience bids me this declare — 

" If heaven a draught of heavenly pleasure spare, 
One cordial in this melancholy vale, 

'Tis when a youthful, loving, modest pair. 
In others' arms breathe out the tender tale, 
Beneath the milk-white thorn, that scents the evening gale." 

And yet the love of Burns was poetical chiefly in its ex- 
pression. He loved like a man. His was no mere sen- 
timental passion, but a hearty attachment. He sighed 
not over the pride of a Laura, nor was satisfied with a 
smile of distant encouragement. Genuine passion was 
only vivified and enlarged in his heart by a poetical 
mind. He arrayed his rustic charmer with few ideal 
attractions. His vows were paid to 

A creature not too bright or good 

For human nature's daily food ; 

For transient sorrows, simple wiles, 

Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears and smiles. 



BURNS. 201 

Her positive and tangible graces were enough for him. 
He sought not to exah them, but only to exhibit the fer- 
vour of his attachment. Even in his love was there this 
singular honesty. Exaggerated flattery does not mark 
his amatory poems, but a warm expression of his passion- 
ate regard, a sweet song over the joys of affection. Per- 
haps no poet has better depicted true love, in its most 
common manifestation. Of the various objects of his 
regard, the only one who seems to have inspired any 
purely poetical sentiment was Highland Mary. Their 
solemn parting on the banks of the Ayr, and her early 
death, are familiar to every reader of Burns. Her 
memory seemed consecrated to his imagination, and he 
has made it immortal by his beautiful lines to Mary in 
Heaven. Nor was the Scottish bard unaware how deep 
an inspiration he derived from the gentler sex. He tells 
us that when he desired to feel the pure spirit of poetry 
and obey successfully its impulse, he put himself on a 
regimen of admiring a fine woman. 

Health to the sex, ilk guid chiel says, 
Wi' merry dance in winter days, 

An' we to sliare in common ; 
The gust o' joy, the balm of woe, 
The soul o' life, the heaven below. 

Is rapture-giving woman. 

And of all the agencies of life there is none superior to 
this. Written eloquence, the voice of the bard, the music 
of creation, will often fail to awaken the heart. We can- 
not always yield ourselves to the hidden spell. But in 
the soft light of her eye genius basks, till it is warmed 
into a new and sweeter life. The poet is indeed kindled 
by communion with the most lovely creation of God. 
He is subdued by the sweetest of human influences. 
His wings are plumed beside the fountain of love, and he 
soars thence to heaven. 



202 THOUGHTS ON THE POETS. 

The poetical temperament is now better and more 
generally understood than formerly. Physiologists and 
moral philosophers have laboured, not without success, to 
diffuse correct ideas of its laws and liabilities. Educa- 
tion now averts, in frequent instances, the fatal errors to 
which beings thus organized are peculiarly exposed. 
No one has more truly described some features of the 
poet's fate than the author of Tarn O'Shanter and the 
Cotter's Saturday Night : — 

Creature, though oft the prey of care and sorrow. 
When blest to-day, unmindful of to-morrow ; 
A being formed t' amuse his graver friends, 
Admired and praised — and there the homage en^; 
A mortal quite unfit for fortune's strife. 
Yet oft the sport of all the ills of life ; 
Prone to enjoy each pleasure riches give. 
Yet haply wanting wherewithal to live ; 
Longing to wipe each tear, to heal each groan. 
Yet frequent all unheeded in his own. 

The love of excitement, the physical and moral sensi- 
bility, the extremes of mood, which belong to this class 
of men, require a certain discipline on the one hand and 
indulgence on the other, which is now more readily 
accorded. Especially do we look with a more just eye 
upon the frailties of poets. It is not necessary to defend 
them. They are only the more lamentable from being 
connected with high powers. But it is a satisfaction to 
trace their origin to unfavourable circumstances of life 
and peculiarities of organization. Burns laboured under 
the disadvantage of a narrow and oppressive destiny, 
opposed to a sensitive and exalted soul. From the depths 
of obscure poverty he awoke to fame. Strong and adroit 
as he was at the several vocations of husbandry, he pos- 
sessed no tact as a manager or financier. With the 
keenest relish for enjoyment, his means were small, and 
the claims of his family unceasing. Susceptible to the 



BURNS 



203 



most refined influences of nature, quick of apprehension, 
and endowed with a rich fancy, his animal nature was 
not less strongly developed. His flaming heart lighted 
not only the muse's torch, but the tempest of passion. 
He often sought to drown care in excess. He did not 
faithfully struggle with the allurements which in reality 
he despised. How deeply he felt the transitory nature 
of human enjoyment, he has told us in a series of beauti- 
ful similes : — 

But pleasures are like poppies spread, 
You seize the flow'r, its bloom is shed 5 
Or like the snow falls in the river, 
A moment white — then melts for ever ; 
Or like the borealis race. 
That flit ere you can point their place ; 
Or like the rainbow's lovely form 
Evanishing amid the storm. 

Tossed on the waves of an incongruous experience, ele- 
vated by his gifts, depressed by his condition, the heir of 
fame, but the child of sorrow — gloomy in view of his 
actual prospects, elated by his poetic visions, — the life of 
Burns was no ordinary scene of trial and temptation. 
While we pity, let us reverence him. Let us glory in 
such fervent songs as he dedicated to love, friendship, 
patriotism and nature. True bursts of feeling came from 
the honest bosom of the ploughman. Sad as was his 
career at Dumfries, anomalous as it seems to picture him 
as an exciseman, how delightful his image as a noble 
peasant and ardent bard ! What a contradiction between 
his human existence and his inspired soul ! Literature 
enshrines few more endeared memorials than the poems 
of Burns. His lyre is wreathed with wild-flowers. Its 
tones are simple and glowing. Their music is like the 
cordial breeze of his native hills. It still cheers the ban- 
quet, and gives expression to the lover's thought. Its 



204 THOUGHTS ON THE POETS. 

pensive melody has a twilight sweetness ; its tender ardour 
is melting as the sunbeams. Around the cottage and 
the moor, the scene of humble affection, the rite of lowly 
piety, it has thrown a hallowed influence, which embalms 
the memory of Burns, and breathes perpetual'masses for 
his soul. 



CAMPBELL. 



There are two prominent sources of poetry — fantasy 
and feeling. In a few men of genius they are so equally 
mingled as scarcely to be distinguished, and their happy 
combination is doubtless the perfection of the art. It is 
easy, however, to perceive of late a growing disposition 
to undervalue vigorous and earnest verse and exalt at its 
expense the more dreamy and careless effusions of fancy. 
A certain order of critics go so far as to confine the name 
of poetry only to the latter. The only bard they recog- 
nize is he who throws into rhythmical form the most un- 
connected and fantastic images he can command — whose 
sentiment springs from vague musing rather than real 
emotion, and whose metaphors are ingeniously fanciful. 
A speculative reverie, a visionary experience like that of 
the Opium Eater, — an elaborate mysticis'm seems to origi- 
nate this species of verse. It appears the result of an 
excess of one poetical element. Imagination is, indeed, 
an essential of poetry, but with it must blend thought 
enough to give energy, and feeling sufficient to awaken a 
human glow, or the result is as coldly brilliant as frost by 
moonlight. 

The mood in which such poetry is conceived is often 
one of the most fascinating we experience. It is that 
state which Irving significantly calls day-dreaming. In 
the pleasing languor of a summer noon, amid the vast 
monotony of the ocean, or when seated by a lonely fire- 
12 



206 THOUGHTS ON THE POETS. 

side at midnight, we often instinctively yield to a train 
of thought which soothes by its very waywardness. The 
mind escapes from its work-day round and expatiates at 
its own free will. In such lawless excursions many a 
striking picture is suggested and rare spirit evoked, but 
it is not to be supposed that they can be indiscriminately 
transferred to the poet's page with good effect. And yet 
there are writers who place such a value upon these 
crude and unorganized products of their fancy as to throw 
them forth without exercising either taste or reflection. 
If poetry is an art, not thus is it to be written. German 
literature and the example of Shelley, Wordsworth and 
other metaphysical writers, have induced among less 
gifted spirits, too complete a reliance upon fantasy as the 
source of poetry. A certain degree of fact and feeling, 
of clearness of purpose and strength of thought, of direct 
language and sincere ardour is essential, if not to poetry 
in general, at least to that poetry which will move the 
Saxon heart. It is this conviction which enables us to 
revert with pleasure to that class of poets whose attrac- 
tion lies in their manliness and enthusiasm — who feel 
strongly and express themselves with a cheering vivacity. 
Not always would we be lulled by the minstrel, or led 
through the mystic windings of a flowery labyrinth. 
There are times when we love the trumpet's note better 
than the iEolian harp ; when the mountain air is sweeter 
than the odours of the East — the bard of hope is more 
welcome than Coleridge or Tennyson. 

The spirit of Campbell's muse is chivalric and gene- 
rous. We readily understand the quick sensibility he is 
said to have manifested at any instance of injustice, after 
communing with his poetry. He seenns to have inherited 
not a little of the brave sympathies of the old clan whose 
name he bears. With the cause of Freedom his name is 
nobly identified. His " Song of the Greeks," and the 



CAMPBELL. 207 

finest episode of his long poem which so glowingly de- 
picts the fate of Poland, afford thrilling proofs of his at- 
tachment to liberty. With the cause of the latter nation 
his private exertions as well as public appeals have com- 
pletely and most honourably identified his name. His 
ardent love of music might have been inferred from his 
versification, which is often singularly melodious and al- 
most invariably affecting. Campbell must certainly be 
placed in the rank of fortunate bards. Although no elabo- 
rate and frequent triumphs succeeded his early success, 
an uncommon proportion of what he has published has 
been deservedly popular. If his minor and casual lite- 
rary efforts, during the last forty years, have not added 
to his laurels they have proved occasions of agreeable 
occupation and pecuniary advantage. His domestic rela- 
tions were remarkably happy though early interrupted 
by death. His social privileges and his opportunities for 
literary improvement have been great. He has enjoyed 
the friendship of the gifted in the various walks of intel- 
lectual life in England, and his existence has been plea- 
santly divided between mental application and the enjoy- 
ment of Nature and congenial fellowship. It was the rare 
good fortune of Campbell to break at once upon the world 
as a poet in the hey-day of youth. His " Pleasures of 
Hope" have certainly not proved illusive. They imme- 
diately won for him the admiration of all classes of read- 
ers, and the handsome annuity of two hundred pounds so 
justly awarded to him on their publication, was continued 
until his death. Few modern poets have reaped a more 
bountiful harvest of fame and comfort from their labours, 
and few have proved themselves more worthy of the 
distinction. 

The direct style and decided tone of the minstrel whose 
heart is the fountain of his verse, wins him a larger if 
not so select an audience than belongs to the more refined 



208 THOUGHTS ON THE POETS. 

and imaginative. He speaks a language of universal 
import. He gives expression to sentiments not peculiar 
but general. The obligation under which he places his 
fellow beings is that of having given " a local habitation 
and a name" to feelings deeply enshrined in their breasts, 
but hitherto wanting an adequate voice — 

" What oft was felt, but ne'er so well expressed." 
The poetry of abstract imagination, the undefined, wild 
and mystical shapings of thought, have their interest and 
value, but to appreciate them it is not requisite for us to 
be insensible to the more clear and artless effusions of the 
muse. These fix the attention at once, impress the 
memorj'' and kindle the heart. In such strains would we 
ever see recorded the lessons of patriotism and the sim- 
ple overflowing of affection. They occupy the same 
relation to more fanciful poetry that popular oratory does 
to philosophical reasoning, the letter of friendship to the 
studied essay, the household song to the intricate compo- 
sition. Campbell is a delightful representative of this 
class of poets. If we should choose a single term to 
indicate his attractiveness, we would call him spirited. 
The greater part of his verse is glowing and alive. It 
bears not the air of vague reverie and listless musing, but 
of a mind full of its subject. He does not dally with the 
muse but seeks her favour in a manly and ardent manner. 
He is not dainty and elaborate, but impassioned and vivid. 
He seems to be thoroughly in earnest — a quality not less 
essential than rare. He is moved by a decided sentiment 
and hence conveys a strong impression. In a word he 
is one of those poets whose sympathies must be excited 
before they can write. The mere habit of versification, 
the passing wish of a moment, or some conventional mo- 
tive are quite insufficient to elicit the gems of such a bard. 
Accordingly they are either eminently successful or sig- 
nally indifferent. Much absurd prejudice with regard to 



CAMPBELL. 209 

what is called the poetry of passion has heen induced hy 
the numberless critics of Byron. Because his life was 
irregular and his mind sometimes fevered rather than 
warmed into action, it has been argued that true poetry 
is wholly contemplative. As if we were never to be 
roused as well as soothed, as if stagnation were not 
equally false to our nature as violence, and as if there 
were not seasons and subjects which claimed and justified 
a wholesome and deep enthusiasm. One of Campbell's 
terse and awakening ' lines admirably defines the nature 
of his own poetry : "For song is but the eloquence of 
truth." He does not dilate with artist-like taste upon the 
minute graces of nature, he seldom displays a dramatic 
or picturesque talent, but he gives forcible, bold and mov- 
ing utterance to sentiments of bravery, moral indignation 
and devoted love. In the genial animation of friendly 
converse we are often surprised at a felicity of diction or 
an effective metaphor. The same unpremeditated touch- 
es of beauty or vigour distinguish the writings which pro- 
ceed from strong feeling. The unusual number of Camp- 
bell's lines which have become proverbial illustrates this 
truth. We scarcely remember, when we use such familiar 
expressions as " angels' visits, few and far between" — " 't is 
distance lends enchantment to the view" — " coming events 
cast their shadows before," that they originated with 
Campbell. It would indeed be difficult to name a modern 
Enghsh poet whose works are more closely entwined 
with our early associations or whose happier efforts lin- 
ger more pleasantly in the memory. 

Campbell is one of the kings of school literature in this 
country. More dazzling species of fame may reward 
other minstrels ; to be the cherished by the virtuous and 
meditative like Wordsworth, to be the favourite of social 
circles like Moore, or the idol of a chosen few like Shel- 
ley, is no undesirable destiny for a poet. But to a kindly 



210 THOUGHTS ON THE POETS. 

heart what can be sweeter than the homage of youth ? 
To a sympathising mind how consoling is the thought 
of having guided the generous impulses of boyhood 
toward freedom and truth by the charm of song! The 
fine speculations of the visionary, the cold logic of the 
learned have no fascination for the impatient heart of the 
young. When " years that bring the philosophic mind" 
have matured the judgment and tempered the feelings, 
highly thoughtful and imaginative poetry weaves its 
quiet spell with grateful power. But before that period, 
a clear and trumpet-toned appeal is needed ; the muse 
must wear a fresh aspect and bound like Hebe in our 
pathway full of life and beauty, or charm with the spell 
of overpowering pathos. Language must come in bold 
and stirring notes ; the idea must be simple, the sentiment 
true, the image affecting, or the appeal is vain. And the 
same is true in no small degree in later years. In the 
hour of retirement and intellectual luxury we turn with 
zest to all the masters of the art ; but the bard who would 
arrest the attention of eager and busy manhood on his 
crowded path, must address him in frank and comprehen- 
sive terms, and awaken the sleeping echoes of his heart 
with a lofty and clear strain. When Croly, in his ode 
to Death, speaks of the 

" Bards, sages, heroes side by side, 
^ Who darkened nations when they died f* 

or Byron in his monody on Sheridan, exclaims that 

*• Folly loves the maryrdom of fame ^^ 

or Sprague declares that 

" Rulers and ruled in common gloom may lie, 
But JVature's laureate bard shall never die** 

we instantly receive the poet's thought and respond to 
his sentiment. And such simple force of language and 



CAMPBELL. 211 

vigour of expression, is valuable for the Very reason that 
it is so easily comprehended and so immediately felt. 
Many such expressive touches occur in the poetry of 
Campbell. In his lines to the Rainbow, two circum- 
stances are introduced with striking conciseness : 

" When o'er the green, undeluged earth 

Heaven's covenant thou didst shine. 
How came the world's gray fathers forth 

To watch thy sacred sign ! 
And when its yellow lustre smiled 

O'er mountains yet untrod, 
Each mother held aloft her child 

To bless the bow of God." 

An instance of similar terseness and meaning may be 
found in the Valedictory Stanzas to Kemble : 

** For ill can Poetry express 

Full many a tone of thought sublime, 
And Painting mute and motionless, 

Steals but a glance from time. ^ 

But by the mighty actor brought, 

Illusion's perfect triumphs come. 
Verse ceases to be airy thought 

And Sculpture to be dumb" 

The description of an Indian chief in " Gertrude," affords 
another illustration : 

" As monumental bronze unchanged his look ; 
A soul that pity touched but never shook ; 
Trained from its tree-rocked cradle to his bier. 
The fierce extreme of good and ill to brook, 
Impassive— /carmg' but the shame of fear — 
A stoic of the woods ^ a man without a tear." 

He finely compares the humming bird's wings to 
" atoms of the rainbow fluttering round," and calls ab- 
sence "the pain without the peace of death." Madame 
de Stael says that the fragility of delight constitutes the 
great secret of its charm. How graphically has Camp- 



gig THOUGHTS ON THE POETS. 

bell portrayed in a single line the evanescent character 
of human pleasure : 

" And in the visions of romantic youth 

What years of endless bliss are yet to flow ! 
But, mortal pleasure, what art thou in truth ? 
The torrenfs smoothness ere it dash below." 

The enthusiasm with which the " Pleasures of Hope' 
were written is evinced by the eloquent liveliness of the 
strain, and not less by the poet's frequent recurrence to 
the main subject, and the fresh ardour with which he 
resumes after a slight digression. He constantly ad- 
dresses Hope anew, as auspicious, primeval, eternal, con- 
genial, the angel of life and the friend of the brave. 
The praise of Love and the protest against Scepticism in 
this poem, are among the best examples of heroic verse in 
the language. " Theodric" is conceived in a more fami- 
liar vein, but contains some very beautiful developments 
of sentiment. The half-pastoral, half-romantic spirit of 
" Gertrude of Wyoming" has long made it a distin- 
guished favourite. But the martial lyrics of Campbell 
have been his great sources of renown. In early life he 
visited Germany, then the theatre of war, and carried 
from that country very vivid impressions. He saw from 
his carriage window, a troop of hussars on their way from 
the field, wiping the blood from their sabres on the manes 
of their horses. The effect of thes^ scenes upon his ima- 
gination is easily recognised in the awakening lines of 
" Lochiel," and the rhythmical magic of "Hohenlinden," 
" The Battle of the Baltic," and " Mariners of England." 
And we have a more tender revelation of the associations 
of war in the " Soldier's Dream." Were we to select the 
most impressive specimen of Campbell's command of 
thought and metre, of his skill in making " sound an 
echo to the sense," it would be certain stanzas of the 
noble ode entitled " Hallowed Ground." An elocution- 



3r 

I 



CAMPBELL. 213 

ist of genius and sensibility, can give to this 'poem a 
most solemn effect, resembling the mingled elevation and 
delight which steals over us in a Gothic church. How 
lofty the sentiment and musical the flow of the following 
rses : 

" What hallows ground where heroes sleep ? 
'Tis not the sculptured piles you heap ! 
In dews that heavens far distant weep 

Their turf may bloom ; 
Or Genii twine beneath the deep 

Their coral tomb, 

*' But strew his ashes to the wind, 
Whose sword and voice has served mankind — 
And is he dead whose glorious mind 

Lifts thine on high ?" 
To live in hearts we leave behind 

Is not to die. 

" Is 't death to fall for Freedom's right ? 
He's dead alone who lacks her light ! 
And murder sullies in Heaven's sight 

The sword he draws : — 
What can alone ennoble fight ? 
A noble cause ! 

*' Give that ! and welcome War to brace 
Her drums, and rend Heaven's reeking face . 
The colours planted face to face. 

The charging cheer. 
Though death's pale horse led on the chase. 

Shall still be dear. 

" What's hallowed ground ? 'Tis what gives birth 
To sacred thoughts in souls of worth ! 
Peace ! Independence ! Truth ! go forth 

Earth's compass round; 
And your high priesthood shall make earth 

All hallowed ground." 



WORDSWORTH 



In an intellectual history of our age, the bard of Rydal 
Mount must occupy a promiaent place. His name is so 
intimately associated with the poetical criticisms of the 
period, that, even if his productions are hereafter neglect- 
ed, he cannot wholly escape consideration. The mere 
facts of his life will preserve his memory. It will not be 
forgotten that one among the men of acknowledged 
genius in England, during a period of great political ex- 
citement, and when society accorded to literary success 
the highest honours, should voluntarily remain secluded 
amid the mountains, the uncompromising advocate of a 
theory, from time to time sending forth his effusions, as 
uncoloured by the poetic taste of the time, as statues from 
an isolated quarry. It has been the fortune of Words- 
worth, like man}^ original characters, to be almost wholly 
regarded from the two extremes of prejudice and admira- 
tion. The eclectic spirit, which is so appropriate to the 
criticism of Art, has seldom swayed his commentators. 
It has scarcely been admitted, that his works may please 
to a certain extent, and in particular traits, and in other 
respects prove wholly uncongenial. Whoever recognizes 
his beauties is held responsible for his system ; and those 
who have stated his defects, have been unfairly ranked 
with the insensible and unreasonable reviewers who so 
fiercely assailed him at the outset of his career. There 
is a medium ground, from which we can survey the sub- 



WORDSWORTH, 215 

ject to more advantage. From this point of observation, 
it is easy to perceive that there is reason on both sides 
of the question. It was natural and just that the lovers 
of poetry, reared in the school of Shakspere, should be 
repelled at the outset by a new minstrel, whose prelude 
was an argument. It was like being detained at the door 
of a cathedral by a dull cicerone, who, before granting 
admittance, must needs deliver a long homily on the 
grandeur of the interior, and explain away its deficien- 
cies. " Let us enter," we impatiently exclaim : " if the 
building is truly grand, its sublimity needs no expositor ; 
if it is otherwise, no reasoning will render it impressive." 
The idea of adopting for poetical objects " the real lan- 
guage of men, when in a vivid state of sensation," was in- 
deed, as Coleridge observes, never strictly attempted ; but 
there was something so deliberate, and even cold, in Words- 
worth's first appeal, that we cannot wonder it was unat- 
tractive. Byron and Burns needed no introduction. The 
earnestness of their manner secured instant attention. 
Their principles and purposes were matters of after- 
thought. Whoever is even superficially acquainted with 
human nature, must have prophecied a doubtful reception 
to a bard, who begins by calmly stating his reasons for 
considering prose and verse identical, his wish to incul- 
cate certain truths which he deemed neglected, and the 
several considerations which induced him to adopt rhyme 
for the purpose. Nor is this feeling wholly unworthy of 
respect, even admitting, with Wordsworth, that mere 
popularity is no evidence of the genuineness of poetry. 
Minds of poetical sensibility are accustomed to regard the 
true poet as so far inspired by his experience, as to write 
from a spontaneous enthusiasm. They regard verse as 
his natural element — the most congenial form of expres- 
sion. They imagine he can scarcely account wholly to 
himself, far less to others, for his diction and imagery, — 



216 THOUGHTS ON THE POETS. 

any farther than they are the result of emotion too intense 
and absorbing to admit of any conscious or reflective 
process. Even if " poetry takes its origin from emotion 
recollected in tranquillity," it must be of that earnest and 
tender kind, which is only occasionally experienced. 
Trust, therefore, was not readily accorded a writer who 
scarcely seemed enamoured of his Art, and presented a 
theory in prose to win the judgment, instead of first 
taking captive the heart by the music of his lyre. Nor 
is this the only just cause of Wordsworth's early want 
of appreciation. He has not only written too much from 
pure reflection, but the quantity of his verse is wholly 
out of proportion to its quality. He has too often written 
for the mere sake of writing. The mine he opened may 
be inexhaustible, but to him it is not given to bring to 
light all its treasures. His characteristics are not uni- 
versal. His power is not unlimited. On the contrary, 
his points of peculiar excellence, though rare, are com- 
paratively few. He has endeavoured to extend his range 
beyond its natural bounds. In a word, he has written 
too much, and too indiscriminately. It is to be feared 
that habit has made the work of versifying necessary, 
and he has too often resorted to it merely as an occupa- 
tion. Poetry is too sacred to be thus mechanically pur- 
sued. The true bard seizes only genial periods, and 
inciting themes. He consecrates only his better moments 
to " the divinest of arts." He feels that there is a cor- 
respondence between certain subjects and his individual 
genius, and to these he conscientiously devotes his pow- 
ers. Wordsworth seems to have acted on a diflferent 
principle. It is obvious to a discerning reader that his 
muse is frequently whipped into service. He is too often 
content to indite a series of common-place thoughts, and 
memorialize topics which have apparently awakened in 
his mind only a formal interest. It sometimes seems as 



WORDSWOETH. 217 

if he had taken up the business cJf a bard, and felt bound 
to fulfil its functions. His political opinions, his histori- 
cal reading, almost every event of personal experience, 
must be chronicled, in the form of a sonnet or blank verse. 
The language maybe chaste, the sentiment unexception- 
able, the moral excellent, and yet there may be no poetry, 
aud perhaps the idea has been often better expressed in 
prose. Even the admirers of Wordsworth are compelled, 
therefore, to acknowledge, that with all his unrivalled 
excellencies, he has written too many 

" Such lays as neither ebb nor flow, 
Correctly cold, and regularly slow." 

Occasional felicities of style do not atone for such frequent 
desecration of the muse. We could forgive them in a 
less-gifted minstrel ; but with one of Wordsworth's geni- 
us it is more difficult to compromise. The number of 
his indifTerent attempts shade the splendour of his real 
merit. The poems protected by his fame, which are un- 
inspired by his genius, have done much to blind a large 
class of readers to his intrinsic worth. Another circum- 
stance has contributed to the same result. His redeem- 
ing graces often, from excess, become blemishes. In 
avoiding the tinsel of a meretricious style, he sometimes 
degenerates into positive homeliness. In rejecting pro- 
fuse ornament, he often presents his conceptions in so 
bald a manner as to prove utterly unattractive. His sim- 
plicity is not unfrequently childish, his calmness stagna- 
tion, his pathos puerility. And these impressions, in 
some instances, have been allowed to outweigh those 
which his more genuine qualities inspire. For w^hen we 
reverse the picture, Wordsworth presents claims to grate^ 
ful admiration, second to no poet of the age ; and no sus- 
ceptible and observing mind can study his writings with- 
out yielding him at least this cordial acknowledgment. 
It is not easy to estimate the happy influence Wordsworth 
13 



218 THOUGHTS ON THE POETS. 

has exerted upon poetical taste and practice, by the exam- 
ple he has given of a more simple and artless style. 
Like the sculptors who lead their pupils to the anatomy 
of the human frame, and the painters who introduced the 
practice of drawing from the human figure, Wordsworth 
opposed to the artificial and declamatory, the clear and 
natural in diction. He exhibited, as it were, a new 
source of the elements of expression. He endeavoured, 
and with singular success, to revive a taste for less excit- 
ing poetry. He boldly tried the experiment of introduc- 
ing plain viands, at a banquet garnished with all the art 
of gastronomy. He offered to substitute crystal water 
for ruddy wine, and invited those accustomed only to " a 
sound of revelry by night," to go forth and breathe the- 
air of mountains, and gaze into the mirror of peaceful 
lakes. He aimed to persuade men that they could be 
" moved by gentler excitements" than those of luxury 
and violence. He essayed to calm their beating hearts, 
to cool their fevered blood, to lead them gently back to 
the fountains that " go softly." He bade them repose 
their throbbing brows upon the lap of Nature. He qui- 
etly advocated the peace of rural solitude, the pleasure of 
evening walks among the hills, as more salutary than 
more ostentatious amusements. The lesson was suited 
to the period. It came forth from the retirement of Na- 
ture as quietly as a zephyr ; but it was not lost in the 
hum of the world. Insensibly it mingled with the noisy 
strife, and subdued it to a sweeter murmur. It fell upon 
the heart of youth, and its passions grew calmer. It im- 
parted a more harmonious tone to the meditations of the 
poet. It tempered the aspect of life to many an eager 
spirit, and gradually weaned the thoughtful -from the en- 
croachments of false taste and conventional habits. To 
a commercial people it portrayed the attractiveness of 
tranquillity. Before an unhealthy and flashy literature, 



WORDSWORTH. 219 

it set up a standard of truthfulness and simplicity. In an 
age of mechanical triumph, it celebrated the majestic re- 
sources of the universe. 

To this calm voice from the mountains, none could 
listen without advantage. What though its tones were 
sometimes monotonous — they were hopeful and serene. 
To listen exclusively, might indeed prove wearisome ; 
but in some placid moments those mild echoes could not 
but bring good cheer. In the turmoil of cities, they 
refreshed from contrast ; among the green fields, they 
inclined the mind to recognize blessings to which it is 
often insensible. There were ministers to the passions, 
and apostles of learning, sufficient for the exigencies of 
the times. Such an age could well suffer one preacher 
of the simple, the natural and the true ; one advocate of 
a wisdom not born of books, of a pleasure not obtaina- 
ble from society, of a satisfaction underived from outward 
activity. And such a prophet proved William Words- 
worth. 

Sensibility to Nature is characteristic of poets in gen- 
eral. Wordsworth's feelings in this regard have the 
character of affection. He does not break out into ardent 
apostrophes like that of Byron addressed to the Ocean, 
or Coleridge's Hymn at Chamouni ; but his verse breathes 
a constant and serene devotion to all the charms of natu- 
ral scenery — from the mountain-range that bounds the 
horizon, to the daisy beside his path : 

^' If stately passions in me burn, 
And one chance look to thee I turn, 
I drink out of an humbler urn, 

A lowlier pleasure ; 
The homelier sympathy that heeds 
The common life our nature breeds, 
A wisdcm fitted to the needs 

Of hearts at leasure." 



220 THOUGHTS ON THE POETS. 

He does not seem so much to resort to the quiet scenes 
of the country for occasional recreation, as to live and 
breathe only in their tranquil atmosphere. His interest 
in the universe has been justly called personal. It is not 
the passion of a lover in the dawn of his bliss, nor the 
unexpected delight of a metropolitan, to whose sense 
rural beauty is arrayed in the charms of novelty ; but 
rather the settled, familiar, and deep attachment of a 
friend : 

" Though absent long, 
These forms of beauty have not been to me 
As is a landscape to a blind man's eye : 
But oft in lonely rooms, and 'mid the din 
Of towns and cities, I have owed to them 
In hours of weariness, sensations sweet. 
Felt in the blood, and felt along the heart; 
And passing even into my purer mind 
With tranquil restoration." 

The life, both inward and outward, of Wordsworth, is 
most intimately associated with lakes and mountains. 
Amid them he was born, and to them has he ever looked 
for the necessary aliment of his being. Nor are his 
feelings on the subject, merely passive or negative. He 
has a reason for the faith that is in him. To the influ- 
ences of Nature he brings a philosophic imngination. 
No transient pleasure, no casual agency, does he ascribe 
to the outward world. In his view, its functions in rela- 
tion to man are far more penetrating and efficient than 
has ever been acknowledged. Human education he 
deems a process for which the Creator has made adequate 
provision in this " goodly frame" of earth and sea and 
sky. 

*' He had small need of books ; for many a Tale 
Traditionary, round the mountains hung; 
And many a legend peopling the dark woods. 
Nourished Imagination in her growth. 



WORDSWORTH. 221 

. And gave the Mind that apprehensive power. 

By vi'hich it is made quick to recognize 

The moral scope and aptitude of things," 
***** 

" One impulse from a vernal wood 

May teach you more of man, 
Of moral evil and of good. 

Than all the sages can." 

Accordingly, both in details and combination, Nature has 
been the object of his long and earnest study. To illus- 
trate her unobserved and silent ministry to the heart, has 
been his favourite pursuit. From his poems might be 
gleaned a compendium of mountain influences. Even 
the animal world is viewed in the same light. In the 
much-ridiculed Peter Bell, Susan, and the White-Doe of 
Rylstone, we have striking instances. To present the 
affecting points of its relation to mankind has been one 
of the most daring experiments of his muse : 

" One lesson, shepherd, let us two divide, 
Taught both by what she shows and what conceals, 
Never to blend our pleasure or our pride. 
With sorrow of the meanest thing that feels. 

It is the common and universal in Nature that he loves 
to celebrate. The rare and startling seldom find a place 
in his verse. That calm, soothing, habitual language, 
addressed to the mind by the common air and sky, the 
ordinary verdure, the field-flower, and the sunset, is the 
almost invariable theme of his song. And herein have 
his labours proved chiefly valuable. They have tended 
to make us more reverent listeners to the daily voices of 
earth, to make us realize the goodness of our common 
heritage, and partake, with a more conscious and grateful 
sensibility, of the beautiful around us. 

In the same spirit has Wordsworth looked upon human 
life and history. To lay bare the native elements of char- 
acter in its simplest form, to assert the essential dignity 
1^^ 



222 THOUGHTS ON THE POETS. 

of life m its most rude and common manifestations, to 
vindicate the interest which belongs to human beings, 
simply as such, have been the darling objects of his 
thoughts. Instead of Corsairs and Laras, peerless ladies 
and perfect knights, a waggoner, a beggar, a potter, a 
pedlar, are the characters of whose feelings and experi- 
ence he sings. The operations of industry, bereavement, 
temptation, remorse and local influences, upon these chil- 
dren of humble toil, have furnished problems which he 
delighted to solve. And who shall say that in so doing, 
he has not been of signal service to his kind ? Who shall 
say that through such portraits a wider and truer sympa- 
thy, a more vivid sense of human brotherhood, a more 
just self-respect, has not been extensively awakened? 
Have not our eyes been thus opened to the better aspects 
of ignorance and poverty ? Have we not thus been made 
to feel the true claims of man ? Allured by the gentle 
monitions from Rydal Mount, do we not now look upon 
our race in a more meek and susceptible mood, and pass 
the low^liest being beside the highway, with more of that 
new sentiment of respect and hope which was heralded 
by the star of Bethlehem ? Can we not more sincerely 
exclaim with the hero of Sartor Resartics : " Poor, wan- 
dering, w^ayward man ! Art thou not tried, beaten with 
many stripes, even as I am ? Ever, whether thou wear 
the royal mantle or the beggar's gaberdine, art thou not 
so weary, so heavy laden ? O ! my brother, my brother ! 
why cannot I shelter thee in my bosom, and wipe away 
all tears from thine eyes ?" 

In accordance with this humane philosophy, Childhood 
is contemplated by Wordsworth. The spirit of the Sa- 
viour's sympathy with this beautiful era of life, seems to 
possess his muse. Its unconsciousness, its ignorance of 
death, its trust, hope and peace, its teachings, and 
promise he has portrayed with rare sympathy. Witness, 



WORDSWORTH. 223 

« We are Seven," the " Pet Lamb," and especially the 
Ode, which is perhaps the finest and most characteristic 
of Wordworth's compositions. A reader of his poetry, 
who imbibes its spirit, can scarcely look upon the young 
with indifference. The parent must thence derive a new 
sense of the sacredness of children, and learn to rever- 
ence their innocence, to leave unmarred their tender 
traits, and to yield them more confidently to the influen- 
ces of Nature. In his true and feeling chronicles of the 
" heaven" that " lies about us in our infancy," Words- 
worth has uttered a silent but most eloquent reproach 
aguinst all the absurdities and sacrilegious abuses of mod- 
ern education. He has made known the truth, that chil- 
dren have their lessons to convey as well as receive : 

*' dearest, dearest boy, my heart 
4 For better lore would seldom yearn, 

Could I but teach the hundreth part 
Of what from thee I learn." 

He has made more evident the awful chasm between the 
repose and hopefulness of happy childhood, and the 
cynical distrust of worldly age. He thus indirectly but 
forcibly appeals to men for a more guarded preservation 
of the early dew of existence, so recklessly lavished upon 
the desert of ambition : 

" Those first affections, 

Those shadowy recollections, 

Which, be they what they may, 

Are yet the fountain-light of all our day ; 

Are yet a master-light of all our seeing; 

Uphold us, cherish, and have power to make 

Our noisy years seem moments in the being 

Of the eternal silence." 

He has exemplified that the worst evil of life is rather 
acquired than inherited, and vindicated the beneficent 
designs of the Creator, by exhibiting humanity when 
fresh from his hand. This is a high moral service. Up- 



224 THOUGHTS ON THE POETS. 

on many of those who have become familiar with Words- 
worth in youth, such impressions must have been perma- 
nent and invaluable, greatly influencing their observation 
of life and nature, and touching " to finer issues" their 
unpledged sympathies. It is with the eye of a medita- 
tive poet that Wordsworth surveys life and nature. And 
thus inspired, a new elevation is imparted to " ordinary 
moral sensations," and it is the sentiment rather than the 
subject which gives interest to the song. Hence it is ab- 
solutely necessary that the reader should sympathize with 
the feelings of the poet, to enjoy or understand him. He 
appeals to that contemplative spirit which does not belong 
to all, and visits even its votaries but occasionally ; to " a 
sadness that has its seat in the depths of reason ;" he pro- 
fesses to " follow the fluxes and refluxes of the mind 
v/hen agitated by the great and simple affections of our 
nature." To enter into purposes like these, there must 
exist a delicate sympathy with human nature, a reflec- 
tive habit, a mingling of reason and fancy, an imagina- 
tion active but not impassioned. The frame of mind 
which he labours to induce, and in which he must be 
read, is 

" That sweet mood when pleasure loves to pay 
Tribute to ease : and, of its joy secure, 
The heart luxuriates with indifferent things, 
Wasting its kindliness on stocks and stones. 
And on the vacant air ;" 

* * * * * 

*' that serene and blessed mood, 

In which the affections gently lead us on, 
Until the breath of this corporeal frame, 
And even the motion of our human blood. 
Almost suspended, we are laid asleep 
In body, and become a living soul. 
While, with an eye made quiet by the power 
Of harmony, and the deep power of joy. 
We see into the life of things." 



WORDSWORTH. 225 

This calm and holy musing, this deep and intimate 
communion with Nature, this spirit of peace, should 
sometimes visit us. There are periods when passionate 
poetry wearies, and a lively measure is discordant. There 
are times when we are calmed and softened, and it is a 
luxury to pause and forget the promptings of desire and 
the cares of life ; when it is a relief to leave the crowd 
and wander into soHtude, when, faint and disappointed, 
we seek, like tired children, the neglected bosoni of Na- 
ture, and in the serenity of her maternal smile, find rest 
and solace. Such moments redeem existence from its 
monotony, and refesh the human heart with dew from 
the urns of Peace. Then it is that the bard of Rydal 
Mount is like a brother, and we deeply feel that it is good 
for us to have known him. 



COLERIDGE 



Coleridge appears to have excelled all his cotempora- 
ries in personal impressiveness. Men of the highest tal- 
ent and cultivation have recorded, in the most enthusias- 
tic terms, the intellectual treat his conversation afforded. 
The fancy is captivated by the mere description of his 
fluent and emphatic, yet gentle and inspired language. 
We are haunted with these vivid pictures of the ' old 
man eloquent,' as by those of the sages of antiquity, and 
the renov^^ned improvisatores of modern times. Hazlitt 
and Lamb seem never weary.of the theme. They make us 
realize, as far as description can, the affectionate temper, 
the simple bearing, and earnest intelligence of their friend. 
We feel the might and interest of a living soul, and sigh 
that it was not our lot to partake directly of its overflow- 
ing gifts. 

Though so invaluable as a friend and companion, un- 
fortunately for posterity, Coleridge loved to talk and read 
far more than to write. Hence the records of his mind 
bear no proportion to its endowments and activity. Ill- 
health early drew him from " life in motion, to life in 
thought and sensation." Necessity drove him to literary 
labour. He was too unambitious, and found too much 
enjoyment in the spontaneous e.xercise of his mind, to 
assume willingly the toils of authorship. His mental 
tastes were not of a popular cast. In boyhood he " wax- 
ed not pale at philosophic draughts," and there was in his 



COLERIDGE. 227 

soul an aspiration after truth — an interest in the deep 
things of life — a ' hungering for eternity,' essentially 
opposed to success as a miscellaneous writer. One of the 
most irrational complaints against Coleridge, was his dis- 
like of the French. Never was there a more honest 
prejudice. In literature, he deemed that nation responsi- 
ble for having introduced the artificial school of poetry, 
which he detested ; in politics, their inhuman atrocities, 
during the revolution, blighted his dearest theory of man ; 
in life, their frivolity could not but awaken disgust in a 
mind so serious, and a heart so tender, where faith and 
love were cherished in the very depths of reflection and 
sensibility. It is, indeed, easy to discover in his works 
ample confirmation of the testimony of his friends, but 
they afford but an unfinished monument to his genius. 
We must be content with the few memorials he has left 
of a powerful imagination and a good heart. Of these 
his poems furnish the most beautiful. They are the 
sweetest echo of his marvellous spirit ; — 

A song divine, of high and passionate thoughts, 
To their own music chaunted. 

The eye of the ancient Mariner holds us, in its wild 
spell, as it did the wedding-guest, while we feel the truth 
that 

He prareth best, who loveth best 

All things both great and small ; 
For the dear God who loveth us. 
He made and loveth all. 

The charm of regretful tenderness is upon us with as 
sweet a mystery, as the beauty of the " lady of a feir 
countrie," when we read these among other musical lines 
of Christabel: 

Alas ! thev had been friends in youth ; 
But whispering tongues can poison truth ; 
And constancy lives in realms above ; 



228 THOUGHTS ON THE POETS. 

And life is thorny ; and youth is vain 
And to be wroth with one we love. 
Doth work like madness in the brain. 

" No man was ever yet a great poet, without being at the 
same time a profound philosopher." True as this may- 
be in one sense, we hold it an unfortunate rule for a 
poetical mind to act upon. It was part of the creed of 
Coleridge, and his works illustrate its unfavourable influ- 
ence. His prose, generally speaking, is truly satisfactory 
only when it is poetical. The human mind is so consti- 
tuted as to desire completeness. The desultory character 
of Coleridge's prose writings is often wearisome and dis- 
turbing. He does not carry us on to a given point by a 
regular road, but is ever wandering from the end pro- 
posed. We are provoked at this waywardness the more, 
because, ever and anon, we catch glimpses of beautiful 
localities, and look down most inviting vistas. At these 
promising fields of thought, and vestibules of truth, we 
are only permitted to glance, and then are unceremoni- 
ously hurried off* in the direction that happens to please 
OUT guide's vagrant humour. This desultory style essen- 
tially mars the interest of nearly all the prose of this dis- 
tinguished man. Not only the compositions, but the 
opinions, habits, and experience of Coleridge, partake oi 
the same erratic character. His classical studies at 
Christ's hospital were interwoven with the reading of a 
circulating library. He proposed to become a shoemaker 
while he was studying medicine. He excited the wonder 
of every casual acquaintance by his schoolboy discourse, 
while he provoked his masters by starting an argument 
instead of repeating a rule. He incurred a chronic rheu- 
matism by swimming with his clothes on, and left the 
sick ward to enlist in a regiment of dragoons. He laid 
magnificent plans of primitive felicity to be realized on 
the banks of the Susquehanna, while he wandered pen- 



COLERIDGE 



229 



niless in the streets of London. He was at different 
times a zealous Unitarian, and a high Churchman — a 
political lecturer — a metaphysical essayist — a preacher — 
a translator — a traveller — a foreign secretary — a philoso- 
pher — an editor — a poet. We cannot wonder that his 
productions, particularly those that profess to he elaborate, 
should, in a measure, partake of the variableness of his 
mood. His works, like his life, are fragmentary. He is, 
too, frequently prolix, labours upon topics of secondary 
interest, and excites only to disappoint expectation. By 
many sensible readers his metaphysical views are pro- 
nounced unintelligible, and by some German scholars 
declared arrant plagiarisms. These considerations are 
the more painful from our sense of the superiority of the 
man. He proposes to awaken thought, to address and 
call forth the higher faculties, and to vindicate the claims 
of important truth. Such designs claim respect. We 
honour the author who conscientiously entertains them. 
We seat ourselves reverently at the feet of a teacher 
whose aim is so exalted. We listen with curiosity and 
hope. Musical are many of the periods, beautiful the 
images, and here and there comes a single idea of striking 
value ; but for these we are obliged to hear many discur- 
sive exordiums, irrelevant episodes and random specula- 
tions. We are constantly reminded of Charles Lamb's 
reply to the poet's inquiry if he had ever heard him 
preach — ' I never knew you do any thing else,' said Elia. 
It is highly desirable that the prose-wTitings of Coleridge 
should be thoroughly winnowed. A volume of delight- 
ful aphorisms might thus be easily gleaned. Long after 
we have forgotten the general train of his observations, 
isolated remarks, full of meaning and truth, linger in our 
memories. Scattered through his works are many say- 
ings, referring to literature and human nature, which 
would serve as maxims in philosophy and criticism. 



230 THOUGHTS ON THE POETS. 

Their effect is often lost from the position they occupy, in 
the midst of abstruse or dry discussions that repel the 
majority even of truth-seekers. His Biographia is the 
most attractive of his prose productions. 

It is not difficult, in a measure at least, to explain or 
rather account for, these peculiarities. Coleridge him- 
self tells us that in early youth, he indulged a taste for 
metaphysical speculations to excess. He was fond of 
quaint and neglected authors. He early imbibed a love 
of controversy, and took refuge in first principles, — in the 
elements of man's nature to sustain his positions. To 
this ground few of his school -fellows could follow him ; 
and we cannot v^onder that he became attached to a field 
of thought seldom explored, and, from its very vague and 
mystical character, congenial to him. That he often re- 
flected to good purpose it would be unjust to deny ; but 
that his own consciousness, at times, became morbid, and 
his speculations, in consequence, disjointed and misty, 
seems equally obvious. We are not disposed to take it 
for granted that this irregular development of mental 
power is the least useful. Perhaps one of Coleridge's 
evening conversations or single aphorisms has more 
deeply excited some minds to action, than the regular per- 
formances of a dozen inferior men. It is this feeling 
w^hich probably led him to express, with such earnest- 
ness, the wish that the " criterion of a scholar's utility 
were the number and value of the truths he has circula- 
ted and minds he has awakened." 

A distinguishing trait of Coleridge's genius was a rare 
power of comparison. His metaphors are often unique 
and beautiful. Here also the poet excels the philosopher. 
It may be questioned if any modern writer whose works 
are equally limited, has illustrated his ideas with more 
originality and interest. When encountered amid his 
grave disquisitions, the similitudes of Coleridge strikingly 



COLERIDGE. 231 

proclaim the poetical cast of his mind, and lead us to 
regret that its energies were not more devoted to the im- 
aginative department of literature. At times he was 
conscious of the same feeling. " Well were it for me 
perhaps," he remarks in the Biographia, " had 1 never 
relapsed into the same mental disease ; if I had continued 
to pluck the flower and reap the harvest from the cultiva- 
ted surface, instead of delving in the unwholesome quick- 
silver mines of metaphysic depths." That he formed as 
just an estimate of the superficial nature of political 
labour, is evident from the following allusion to partizan 
characters : 

Fondly these attach 
A radical causation to a few 
Poor drudges of chastising Providence, 
Who borrow all their hues and qualities 
From our own folly and rank wickedness, 
Which gave them birth and nursed them. 

A few examples taken at random, will suffice to show 
his " dim similitudes woven in moral strains." 

" To set our nature at strife with itself for a good purpose, im- 
plies the same sort of prudence as a priest of Diana would have 
manifested, who should have proposed to dig up the celebrated 
charcoal foundations of the mighty temple of Ephesus, in order 
to furnish fuel for the burnt-offerings on its altars." 

" The reader, who would follow a close reasoner to the summit 
of the absolute principle of any one important subject, has chosen 
a chamois-hunter for his guide. He cannot carry us on his 
shoulders; we must strain our sinews, as he has strained his; 
and make firm footing on the smooth rock for ourselves, by the 
blood of toil from our own feet." 

" In the case of libel, the degree makes the kind, the circum- 
stances constitute the criminality ; and both degree and circum- 
stances, like the ascending shades of colour, or the shooting hues 
of a dove's neck, die away into each other, incapable of definition 
or outline." 

" Would to heaven that the verdict to be passed on my labours 
depended on those who least needed them ! The water-lily in 



232 THOUGHTS ON THE POETS. 

the midst of waters lifts up its broad leaves and expands its pe- 
tals, at the first pattering of the shower, and rejoices in the raiu 
with a quicker sympathy than the parched shrub in the sandy 
desert." 

" Human experience, like the stern lights of a ship at sea, illu- 
mines only the path which we have passed over," 

*' I have laid too many eggs in the hot sands of this wilderness 
the world, with ostrich carelessness and ostrich oblivion. The 
greater part, indeed, have been trod under foot, and are forgotten ; 
but yet no small number have crept forth into life, some to fur- 
nish feathers for the caps of others, and still more to plume the 
shafts in the quivers of my enemies." 

On the drivmg cloud the shining bow, 

That gracious thing made up of smiles and tears, 
Mid the wild rack and rain that slant below 
Stands — 

As though the spirits of all lovely flowers ^ 
Inweaving each its wreath and dewy crown, 
And ere they sunk to earth in vernal showers. 
Had built a bridge to tempt the angels down. 
Remorse is as the heart in which it grows : 
If that be gentle, it drops balmy dews 
Of true repentance ; but if proud and gloomy, 
It is a poison tree, that, pierced to the inmost, 
Weeps only tears of poison. 

The more elaborate poetical compositions of Coleridge 
display much talent and a rare command of language. 
His dramatic attempts, however, are decidedly inferior in 
interest and power to many of his fugitive pieces. Wal- 
lenstein, indeed, is allowed to be a master-piece of trans- 
lation — and, although others have improved upon certain 
passages, as a whole it is acknowledged to be an unequal- 
led specimen of its kind. But to realize the true ele- 
ments of the poet's genius, w^e must have recourse to his 
minor poems. In these, his genuine sentiments found 
genial development. They are beautiful emblems of his 
personal history, and admit us to the secret chambers of 
his heart. We recognize, as we ponder them, the native 



COLERIDGE. 233 

fire of his muse, *' unmixed with baser matter." Of the 
juvenile poems, the Monody on Chatterton strikes us as 
the most remarkable. It overflows with youthful sympa- 
thy, and contains passages of singular power for the effu- 
sions of so inexperienced a bard. Take, for instance, the 
following lines, where an identity of fate is suggested 
from the consciousness of error and disappointment : 

Poor Chatterton ! he sorrows for thy fate 

Who would have praised and loved thee, ere too late. 

Poor Chatterton ! farewell ! of darkest hues 

This chaplet cast I on thy unshapen tomb; 

But dare no longer on the sad theme muse, 

Lest kindred woes persuade a kindred doom : 

For oh ! big gall-drops shook from Folly's wing, 

Have blackened the fair promise of my spring ; 

And the stern Fates transpierced with viewless dart 

The last pale Hope that shivered at my heart. 

Few young poets of English origin, have written more 
beautiful amatory poetry than this : 

(have I sighed) were mine the wizard's rod, 
Or mine the power of Proteus, changeful god ! 
A flower-entangled arbour I would seem 
To shield my love from noontide's sultry beam : 
Or bloom a myrtle, from whose odorous boughs 
My love might weave gay garlands for her brows. 
When twilight stole across the fading vale 
To fan my love I'd be the evening gale ; 
Mourn in the soft folds of her swelling vest. 
And flutter my faint pinions on her breast ! 
On seraph wing I'd float a dream by night. 
To soothe my love with shadows of delight :- 
Or soar aloft to be the spangled skies. 
And gaze upon her with a thousand eyes ! 

Nor were religious sentiments unawakened : 

Fair the vernal mead. 
Fair the high grove, the sea, the sun, the stars ; 
True impress each of their creating Sire ! 

14 



234 THOTGHTS ON THE POETS. 

Yet nor high grove, nor many- coloured mead, 

Nor the green Ocean with his thousand isles, 

Nor the starred azure, nor the sovran sUn, 

E'er with such majesty of portraiture 

Imaged the supreme being uacreate. 

As thou, meek Saviour ! at the fearless hour 

When thy insulted anguish winged the prayer 

Harped by archangels, when they sing of mercy ! 

Which when the Almighty heard from forth his throne 

Diviner light filled heaven with ecstacy ! 

Heaven's hymnings paused : and hell her yawning mouth 

Closed a brief moment. 

It is delightful to dwell upon these early outpourings 
of an ardent and gifted soul. They lay bare the real 
characteristics of Coleridge. Without them our sense of 
his genius would be far more obscure. When these ju- 
venile poems were written ' existence was all a feeling, 
not yet shaped into a thought.' Here is no mysticism or 
party feeling, but the simplicity and fervour of a fresh 
heart, touched by the beauty of the visible world, by the 
sufferings of genius, and the appeals of love and religion. 
The natural and the sincere here predominate over the 
studied and artificial. Time enlarged the bard's views, 
increased his stores of knowledge, and matured his men- 
tal powers ; but his genius, as pictured in his writings, 
though strengthened and fertilized, thenceforth loses 
much of its unity. Its emanations are frequently more 
grand and startling, but less simple and direct. There 
is more machinery, and often a confusion of appliances. 
We feel that it is the same mind in an advanced state ; — 
the same noble instrument breathing deeper strains, but 
with a melody more intricate and sad. 

In the Sibylline Leaves we have depicted a later stage 
of the poet's life. Language is now a more effective ex- 
pedient. It follows the thought with a clearer echo. It 
is woven with a firmer hand. The subtle intellect is 



COLERIDGE. 235 

evidently at work in the very rush of emotion. The poet 
has discovered that he cannot hope 

" from outward forms to win 
The passion and the life, whose fountains are within." 

A new sentiment, the most solemn that visits the breast 
of humanity, is aroused by this reflective process — the 
sentiment of duty. Upon the sunny landscape of youth 
falls the twilight of thought. A conviction has entered 
the bosom of the minstrel that he is not free to wander at 
will to the sound of his own music. His life cannot be 
a mere revel in the embrace of beauty. He too is a man, 
born to suflfer and to act. He cannot throw off the re- 
sponsibility of life. He must sustain relations to his fel- 
lows. The scenery that delights him assumes a new 
aspect. It appeals not only to his love of nature, but his 
sense of patriotism : 

divine 
And beauteous island ! thou hast been my sole 
And most magnificent temple, in the which 
I walk with awe, and sing my stately songs, 
Loving the God that made me ! 

More tender ties bind the poet-soul to his native isle — 

A pledge of more than passing life — 
Yea, in the very name of wife. 

* * * * 

Then was I thrilled and melted, and most warm 
Impressed a father's kiss. 

Thus gather the many-tinted hues of human destiny 
around the life of the young bard. To a mind of philo- 
sophical cast, the transition is most interesting. It is the 
distinguishing merit of Coleridge, that in his verse we 
find these epochs warmly chronicled. Most just is his 
vindication of himself from the charge of egotism. To 
what end are beings peculiarly sensitive, and capable of 
rare expression, sent into the world, if not to make us 
feel the mysteries of our nature, by faithful delineations, 



236 THOUGHTS ON THE POETS. 

drawn from their own consciousness ? It is the lot, not 
of the individual, but of man in general, to feel the subli- 
mity of the mountain — the loveliness of the flower — the 
awe of devotion — and the ecstacy of love ; and we should 
bless those who truly set forth the traits and triumphs of 
our nature — the consolations and anguish of our human 
life. We are thus assured of the universality of Nature's 
laws — of the sympathy of all genuine hearts. Some- 
thing of a new dignity invests the existence, whose com- 
mon experience is susceptible of such portraiture. In the 
keen regrets, the vivid enjoyments, the agonizing remorse' 
and the glowing aspirations recorded by the poet, we find 
the truest reflection of our own souls. There is a noble- 
ness in the lineaments thus displayed, which we can 
scarcely trace in the bustle and strife of the world. Self- 
respect is nourished by such poetry, and the hope of im- 
mortality rekindled at the inmost shrine of the heart. Of 
recent poets, Coleridge has chiefly added to such obliga- 
tions. He has directed our gaze to Mont Blanc as to an 
everlasting altar of praise ; and kindled a perennial flame 
of devotion amid the snows of its cloudy summit. He 
has made the icy pillars of the Alps rmg with solemn 
anthems. The pilgrim to the Vale of Chamouni shall 
not hereafter want a Hymn, by which his admiring soul 
may " wreak" itself upon expression." 

Rise, 0, ever rise, 
Rise like a cloud of incense, from the earth ! 
Thou kingly spirit throned among the hills, 
Thou dread ambassador from earth to heaven. 
Great hierarch ! tell thou the silent sky, 
And tell the stars, and tell yon rising sun, 
Earth, and her thousand voices praises God. 

To one other want of the heart has the muse of Cole- 
ridge given genuine expression. Fashion, selfishness, 
and the mercenary spirit of the age, have widely and 



COLERIDGE. 237 

deeply profaned the very name of Love. To poetry it 
flies as to an ark of safety. The English bard has set 
apart and consecrated a spot sacred to its meditation — 
* midway on the mount,' ' beside the ruined tower ;' and 
thither may we repair to cool the eye fevered with the 
glare of art, by gazing on the fresh verdure of nature, 
'^hen 

The moonshine stealing o'er the scene 
Has blended with the lights of eve, 

And she is there, our hope, our joy. 
Our own dear Genevieve. 



KEATS 



A FEELING has gone abroad prejudicial to the manliness 
of Keats. Such an idea in relation to any one who has 
given undoubted proof of intellectual vigour, should ne- 
ver be confidently entertained. Strong sense generally 
accompanies strong feeling ; and it may be fairly presum- 
ed that when a man of true force of character is charge- 
able with great weakness, it is usually to be ascribed more 
to physical and accidental causes than to any inherent 
and absolute defect. The whole environment of circum- 
stances must be weighed in the balance with the genuine 
characteristics of the individual, before we can truly pro- 
nounce on the case. Keats was a man of a most affluent 
imagination, sensitive feelings, and high aims ; but he 
was born at a livery stable ; his constitution was radical- 
ly feeble, and his affections grievously disappointed. 
Considering what a world we live in, and the traits of 
our common nature, this was a painful combination. Al- 
most every young man cherishes an idea which he confi- 
dently expects to realize. A poetical mind unites with 
such hopes a singular intensity of purpose; failure is 
accordingly the signal for despair. It is not in moral 
enterprises as in trade. When the hopes of the heart 
are bankrupt, renovation is not easy ; they are too often 
all risked upon one adventure, and when that miscarries, 
iron nerves and an indomitable will are required to stand 
the shock. The cherished aim of Keats was doubtless to 



KEATS 



239 



retrieve his social condition by the force of his genius. 
There was nothing presumptuous in such an anticipation. 
He had evinced more of the ' divine afflatus' than many 
English poets of good reputation, and his powers were by 
no means fully ripe. He had an exuberance of fancy 
truly wonderful — the independence to choose his own 
path, and an honest ambition to win the laurel which he 
felt was within his grasp. He published his first volume 
at the age of twenty-one. His political opinions and 
those of his associates, drew upon his literary efforts the 
most severe vituperation ; and when Endj^mion appeared 
in 1818, it was furiously assailed by the great critical au- 
thority of the day. Gifford declared his intention of 
attacking it, even before its appearanee. The lowly birth 
of the poet, the character of his friends, and the humble 
nature of his early education, were turned into arrows, 
dipped in gall, to rankle, in his sensitive heart. The 
courtesies of private life were invaded, and the grossest 
calumnies resorted to, in order to carry out the system of 
abuse then prevalent. With good health and a reasona- 
ble prospect of continued existence, Keats could have 
faced the storm. He could have lived down opprobrium, 
and aw^ed a venal press by the shadow of his mature ge- 
nius. But feeling that the seeds of death were already 
within him, and having striven in vain 
' to uprear 
Love's standard on the battlements of song,' 

he no longer hoped ' to leave his name upon the harp- 
string.' He felt that he must pass away unvindicated. 
The criticism to which his death is commonly ascribed, 
was but the last of a series of painful experience. It is 
very unjust to select one, and that the least dignified of 
his trials, and represent him as thus unworthily vanquish- 
ed. It was " in battalions" and not singly, that trouble 
overpowered him. It was physical infirmity rather than 



240 THOUGHTS ON THE POETS. 

morbid feeling-, that gave fatal effect to critical abuse. 
The " article" was the climax, rather than the arbiter of 
his fate. Byron's facetious rhymes, therefore, pass for 
nothing. Keats was not "extinguished by an article/' 
It is untrue that he was " laughed into Lethe by some 
quaint review." His woes were only aggravated by ridi- 
cule, and his last days embittered by the obloquy attempt- 
ed to be cast on his name. It is obvious, therefore, that 
he was no lack-a-daisical sufferer. In fact, the stale of 
his mind was inferred rather than known. He kept his 
feelings to himself, and they preyed upon him the more. 
He possessed too much delicacy to intrude his sorrows, 
even upon intimate friends. He " bore his faculties so 
meekly," that to a kindly observer his silent griefs could 
not but " challenge pity." There is a strength of quiet 
endurance as significant of courage, as the most daring 
feats of prowess. Keats displayed this energy of mind 
to a degree which completely blunts the edge of sarcasm 
as applied to his sensibility. He had, says one of his 
friends, a face in which was visible " an eager power, 
checked and made patient by ill-health." Lord Byron, 
like all who make their personal consciousness the 
ground of judgment, often erred in his estimate of charac- 
ter. He does not appear to have made any allowance 
for the difference of circumstances and disposition be- 
tween himself and Keats. He says the effect of the first 
severe criticism upon him, was "rage, resistance and 
redress, not despondency and despair." Very likely. He 
was then in high health — had rank and money to sustain 
him, and nothing at issue but literary fame. Keats was 
poor, obscurely born, his health broken, and his heart 
concentered on an enterprise affecting his every interest. 
His spirit also was too gentle to find relief in satire. By- 
ron looked at his beautiful hand with pride, as Nature's 
sign of high-birth : Keats gazed witli sadness upon his 



XE ATS. 241 

— its veins swollen by disease ; he used to say it was the 
hand of a man of fifty. In this one contrast, we hare a 
token of their diversity of condition- To the one, poe- 
try was a graceful appendage — to the other, all in all : 
the one, if saccessfnl with the mases, could ^Ufaai^iipon 
many an object secured by his social position and versa- 
tile nature ; the other, if baffled with his lyre, was left 
no resource bat the ungenial pathway of lowly toil : — 
Byron was a poet at intervals ; Keats had wed himself 
'" to things of light, from infancy." He Jired bottwenty-^ 
foor years. His education, as fer as formal teaching" was 
concerned, he derived chiefly from a school at Enfield. 
At an early age he was apprenticed to a sargeon ; bat 
his fine abilities soon brought him in contact with several 
leading minds. His happiest hours appear to have 
been those dedicated to friendly converse with congenial 
spirits, and strolling along a pleasant lane between Hamp- 
stead and Highgate. This walk has become clas^c 
ground, frequented as it has been by such men as Cole- 
ridge, Lamb and Keats. Although the latter was convin- 
ced that his disease was fatal for three years before his 
death, he was induced by the hope of ^alleviating the 
symptoms and refreshing his mind with change of scene, 
to embark for Naples. He carried with him a Iweaking- 
heart- Assiduous devotion at the bed-side of a dying 
brother, had wasted his little remaining strength. There 
was now an aimless fever in his life. The heantifol 
fragment of H3rperion he had not courage to cmnf^ele, 
after the cold reception of his earher poems. In hst he 
seems to have gone abroad only to die. The luxuriant 
beauty of Naples, and the solemn atmosphere of Rome 
must have pressed upon his senses with most pathetic 
import. No heart was ever more alive to the spell of 
loveliness or the charm of antiquity ; hat how fall oi 
**■ thoughts too deep for tears,*^ must have been dieirlu»> 
guage wiiea hallowed by the stiadow of death! 



"242 THOUGHTS ON THE POETS. 

A few years after, one of the kings of literature came 
from the same northern isle, to seek renovation in that 
gentle clime. But his goal was reached. He had en- 
joyed a long and bright career. The affectionate hopes 
of millions followed his feeble steps. He could look back 
upon many years of successful achievement; and was 
about to depart, like the sun at his setting, enciicled with 
the light of glory. The younger heir of fame came a 
weary pilgrim to the same scenes, to die in his youth, 
like a star that rises only to twinkle for an hour, and dis- 
appear forever. Keats was fortunate in a companion. 
An artist who had known him long, appreciated his char- 
acter, and was blessed with a rich fund of animal spirits 
and kindly feeling, "sustained and soothed" the sufferer, 
until he tranquilly expired at Rome, Dec. 27th, 1S20. 
How many have witnessed, in imagination, the departure 
of the gifted young exile ! The sweet words he uttered, 
his patience and gentleness and poetry beamed forth to 
the last. He whispered his epitaph to his friend — " My 
name was writ in water ;" and already felt the daisies 
growing over him ! The physicians marvelled at his te- 
nacity of life, when the vital energies were so exhausted, 
and said he must have long lived upon the strength of 
his spirit. 

Sometimes a lovely day occurs in the very depth of 
winter at Rome. The deep blue sky and soft wind are 
then more than ever alluring. Such a day I chose to 
visit the grave of Keats, guided to its vicinity by the mas- 
sive, grey pyramid, called the monument of Caius Ces- 
tus. A plain white* grave-stone, in the midst of nume- 
rous other memorials of foreign sepulture, indicates the 
spot. The turf around was of a most vivid emerald — 
the sky above serenely azure — the air balmy, and the 
scene almost deserted. The sigh of the breeze through 
a cypress, or the chirrup of a single bird, drawn forth by 



KEATS. 243 

the unwonted warmth, alone broke the profound quiet of 
the cemetery. It seemed as if Nature was atoning to 
the departed for the world's harshness, by keeping a vigil 
of peaceful beauty at his grave. 

To every poetical mind there seems to be a peculiar 
nucleus for thought. The sympathies flow in some par- 
ticular direction ; and the glow and imagery of song are 
excited in a certain manner, according to individual taste 
and character. To Scott, chivalry and all its associa- 
tions, were inspiring — to Wordsworth, abstract Nature. 
Cowper loved to group his feelings and fancies around 
moral truth; and Pope to weave into verse the phenome- 
na of social life. The poetical sympathies of Keats were 
strongly attracted by Grecian mythology. This was un- 
fortunate as regards his prospect of fame. Neptune and 
Venus do not win the popular attention like Tam O'Shan- 
ter, Marmion, or Childe Harold. Diverse as are these 
personages, they are all far nearer to the heart of man ; 
they come more within the common view than the 
Pagan deities. The life of a great man of modern 
times, finds far more readers in this age than a classical 
dictionary. On the other hand, Keats found in the field 
he selected, a freedom of range which his warm fancy 
craved. Among the Grecian gods he could indulge in 
the most luxuriant invention ; he could draw pictures of 
beauty, and visions of bliss, and tales of passion, accord- 
ing to an ideal standard. In this enchanted ground he 
need not conform to the actual, but his thoughts could be 
" as. free of wing as Eden's garden bird;" and his muse 
emulate " the large utterance of the early gods." We 
have frequent evidence of his love of these themes : 

Behold ! he walks 
On Heaven's pavement ; brotherly he talks 
To divine powers : from his hand, full fain, 
Juno's proud birds are pecking early grain : 



244 , THOUGHTS ON THEPOETS. 

He tries the nerve of Phoebus' golden bow. 
And asketh where the golden apples grow : 
Upon his arm he braces Pallas' shield, 
And strives in vain to unsettle and wield 
A Jovian thunderbolt,* 

It was his delight to see 

Phoebus in the morning ; 
Or flushed Aurora in the roseate dawning ; 
Or a white Naiad in a rippling stream : 
Or a rapt seraph in a moonlight beam.f 

In these ambitious attempts, the young poet paid little 
attention to artificial rules of versification. The lines run 
into one another with scarcely any view to the effect of 
the pause. The rhymes seem often forced. Fancy 
rather than form — sentiment rather than art, predominate. 
The couplets are often illegitimately joined; but their 
offspring, born " in the lusty stealth of nature," frequent- 
ly o'ertop more regular aspirants for the favour of the 
muses. The mould of his early creations was a secon- 
dary object with Keats ; but it should be borne in mind 
that good rhymes are common, but men of original poet- 
ical power, rare. It is conceded, also, that an occasional 
unauthorized expression must be added to the sin of care- 
less versification. Few. critics can be expected to pass, 
unlashed, such words as " lush," " wingedly," " 'min- 
ish," " graspable," " hoveringly," and the like. He 
seems to have often written without forethought or revi- 
sion. There is a very spontaneous air about his long 
poems. They flow out like a spring set loose, winding 
along in a vagrant and free course. 'This kind of poeti- 
cal audacity is very provoking to critics, and doubtless 
incited them not a little in their endeavours to crush the 
new-fiedged warbler. Palpable as are the artistical de- 

'^ Endymion. t Epistle to Matthew. 



KEATS. 245 

fects of most of the poetry of Keats, its bold and singular 
beauties are equally apparent. And herein consists the 
shame of these " invisible infallibilities," as some one 
calls reviewers, — that with the sense to perceive the 
crude and incorrect structure, they lacked soul to feel the 
exquisite sentiment and sweet imagery of these poems. 
They should have remembered, that a good versifier is 
no uncommon personage ; but a creative genius is not 
vouchsafed to this planet every day. They should have 
acknowledged that study can reform a careless style ; 
but that no such process can give birth to thoughts of 
poetic beauty. While, as experienced observers, they 
suggest an improved manner to the young bard, they 
should have cordially — ay, reverently hailed the creden- 
tials Keats proffered of his high mission, and blest the 
advent of a poet soul. A few glances over these poems 
would have furnished rich proofs of their promise, and 
won attention from their defects. Here and there, a lov- 
ing eye could certainly have discerned perfect gems, 
even of style, and perceived a freshness, freedom 
and power of fancy, unequalled in English verse. But 
blind attachment to an obsolete school of poetry — --as if 
such a thing were possible — political considerations, the 
factitious influence of birth, companionship and fortune, 
were suffered to magnify every fault, and dwarf all ex- 
cellence. There are those who cannot welcome an angel 
with ruffled wings ! 

A casual survey will discover felicitous touches of 
description, enough to indicate to any candid mind, how 
full of poetry was the soul of Keats. He speaks of the 
" patient brilliance of the moon," " and the quaint mossi- 
ness of aged roots." Whoso feels not the force of such 
words, will look in vain for the poetic, either in life or liter- 
ature. Here are a few traces of the footsteps of genius, 
taken at hazard, like wild-flowers from among the grass : 



246 THOUGHTS ON THE POETS. 

.... Autumn bold 
With universal tinge of sober gold. 

.... Vesper 
Summons all the downiest clouds together 
For the sun's purple couch. 

. . / . Time, that aged nurse. 
Rocked me to patience. 

. . Silence came heavily again. 
Feeling about for its old couch of space 
And airy cradle. 

.... Cold, ! cold indeed 
Were her fair limbs, and like a common weed 
The sea-swell took her hair. 

. . ere the hot sun count 
His dew^y rosary on the eglantine. 

Sudden a thought came like a full-blown rose 
Flushing his brow, and in his -pained heart 
Made purple riot. 

A lively prelude, fashioning the way 
In which the voice should wander. 

. . . the silver flow 
Of Hero's tears, the swoon of Imogen, 
Fair Pastorella in the bandit's den, 
Are things to brood on with more ardency 
Than the death-day of empires. 

.... He ne'er is crowned 
With immortality, who fears to follow 
Where airy voices lead. 

.... Now indeed 
His senses had swooned off: he did not heed 
The sudden silence, or the whispers low, 
Or the old eyes dissolving at his woe, 
Or anxious calls, or close of trembling palms, 
Or maiden's sigh, that grief itself embalms. 



KEATS 



247 



Such turns of thought and sweet fancies, and they 
abound in the poetry of Keats, would suggest to any 
tasteful and unprejudiced mind, the warmest hopes of 
poetical success. They occur, indeed, in the midst of 
blemishes, and the way to them is sometimes fatiguing ; 
but all the serious deficiences of the poet flow from the 
exuberance, rather than the paucity of his gifts. A 
charge of efleminacy has sometimes been preferred 
against his warmer pictures and the tone of his senti- 
ment. This is to be ascribed, in a great measure, to his 
want of bodily energy. A very sensitive and earnest 
heart in a feeble body, is apt to give birth, in fanciful 
creations, to an over-softness of portraiture. There is 
sometimes too much of the languor of reacting passion. 
Endymion and other of his heroes, faint and sleep, and 
almost " die, like Raphael, in the arms of love." It is 
said that Keats acknowledged, with regret, having occa- 
sionally written when his mJnd was not sufficiently 
braced to its task, and when a luxuriant imagination was 
suffered to expend itself, unsustained by due judgment. 
Such lapses were, however, but occasional and tempor- 
ary. The poet's organization from its very delicacy, 
seems to have been peculiarly favourable to luxurious im- 
pressions. We can easily imagine such a man basking 
with delight in the fragrant sunshine of spring, or wrapt 
in quiet delight over a Grecian vase or a beautiful coun- 
tenance. He has one or two festal descriptions which 
are quite delicious : 

. , . . recline 
Upon these living flowers. Here is wine 
Alive with sparkles — never, I aver, 
Since Ariadne was a vintager, 
So cool a purple : taste these juicy pears. 
Sent me by sad Vertumnus, when his fears 
Were high about Pomona : here is cream 
Deepening to richness from a snowy gleam ; 



24S THOUGHTS ON THE POETS. 

Sweeter than that nurse Almathea skimm'd 
For the boy Jupiter : and here undimmed 
By any touch, a bunch of blooming plums 
Ready to melt between an infant's gums : 
And here is manna pick'd from Syrian trees 
In starlight by the three Hesperides.* 

And still she slept an azure-lidded sleep, 
In blanched linen, smooth and lavender'd. 
While he from forth the closet brought a heap 
Of candied apple, quince, and plum and gourd ; 
With jellies sweeter than the creamy curd. 
And lucid syrops tinct with cinnamon ; 
Manna and dates, in argosy transferr'd 
From Fez ; and spiced dainties, every one, 
From silken Sarmacand to cedar'd Lebanon.f 

Perhaps, there is more cant than strict truth, in what 
IS often said about the early promise of a poet who dies 
young. Perhaps we sometimes mistake the fruit for the 
blossom. What though the minstrel has struck his harp 
but for an hour ? Perchance that brief space has called 
forth its deepest harmony. What though the early- 
called has not written an epic or a tragedy? If we look 
thoughtfully at his lyric or sonnet, we shall discover, it 
may be, the essence of his genius there preserved. What 
if he died young? There is a poetry that cannot survive 
youth. We are ever lamenting that an admired bard 
does not undertake a great work, when it is more than 
probable that such an office is not adapted to his powers. 
Thanatopsis is as precious as if it formed part of some 
long poem, which few would read. If it is objected that 
the poetical efforts of our day are fragmentary, let it be 
remembered that our times, our reading, and our very 
life, partake of the same character. It is not the amount 
nor the form, but the intrinsic excellence of poetic crea- 
tions, which is our highest concern. Some of the most 
* Endymion. f Eve of St. Agnes. 



KEATS. - 249 

Kving and true verses in our language, have been written 
in youth. It is the divine peculiarity of the art that it 
demands not, but rather repudiates the lessons of life that 
prudence extols. The young poet sometimes executes 
what the old philosopher cannot appreciate. In the fresh- 
ness of the soul are often taken its noblest flights. The 
dreams of youth are sometimes the most truly glorious 
efforts of the human mind. The poetry of Keats is not 
all a " feverish attempt ;" it is often a mature result. 
He has at least left one poem, which, for invention, struc- 
ture, imagery, and all the elements of the art, is as fault- 
less and as rare a gem as can be found in English litera- 
ture. Judged by its own law, it is a production of itself 
sufficient to stamp its author with the name of a poet. 
If it does not live, it will be because taste and the love of 
the beautiful have died. The " Eve of St. Agnes " is a 
delightful and original performance. What an idea of 
.old the first stanza conveys : 

St. Agnes' Eve — Ah, bitter chill it was ! 
The owl, for all his feathers, was a-cold ; 
The hare limp'd trembling through the frozen grass, 
And silent was the flock in woolly fold : 
Numb were the Beadman's fingers, while he told 
His rosary, and while his frosted breath, 
Like pious incense from a censer old, 
Seem'd taking flight for heaven, without a death, 
Past the sweet Virgin's picture, while his prayer he saith., 

This description of moonlight streaming through a 
stained glass-window, is acknowledged to be unrivalled : 

Full on the casement shone the wintry moon, • 
And threw warm gules on Madeline's fair breast. 
As down she knelt for heaven's grace and boon : 
Rose-bloom fell on her hands, together prest, 
And on her silver cross soft amethyst. 
And on her hair a glory, like a saint : 
She seem'd a splendid angel, newly drest. 
Save wings, for heaven. 



2§Gt THOUGHTS ON THE POETS. 

What poet ever described a maiden unrobing in terms 
of such delicate yet graphic beauty as these ? 

Anon her heart revives : her vespers done, 
Of all its wreathed pearls her hair she frees ; 
Unclasps her w^armed jewels one by one ; 
Loosens her fragrant boddice ; by degrees 
Her rich attire creeps rustling to her knees : 
Half-hidden, like a mermaid in sea-weed. 
Pensive awhile she dreams awake, &c. 

Nor is this all. The poet follows the fair creature to 
her couch, and describes her soul in sleep, as 

Blissfully haven'd both from joy and pain ; 
Clasp'd like a missal where swart Paynims pray ; 
Blinded alike from sunshine and from rain, 
As though a rose should shut, and be a bud again. 

With this last exquisite metaphor, I take leave of 
Keats. His genius was a flower of uncommon richness ; 
and, although he meekly laments that it had " no depth 
to strike in," its bloom and perfume will never cease to 
charm — for he has truly said, that 

A thing of beauty is a joy forever. 



BARRY CORN WALL 



When the smiles of the muse brighten the intervals of 
a professional life, when she scatters flowers along the 
path of toilsome duty, and proffers a refreshing cup to the 
wayfarer, how pleasant and cheering is her aspect ! Then 
we forget the annals of privation and despondency with 
which the idea of a poet is too often associated. We 
bless the art that keeps alive, in the midst of worldly in- 
fluences, the original beauty of the soul. We hail as di- 
vine the inspiration that, from time to time, woos the 
busy denizen of a crowded metropolis to the altar of a 
sweet and high communion. Thus the ideal redeems 
the actual. Thus the mind casts off its work-day vest- 
ments, and is arrayed anew in the white robe of child- 
hood : and the heart is freed from the harsh fetters of 
care and custom, to grow brave and fresh again in the 
holy air of song. Of the many aspects which the poetic 
life exhibits, there is none more benign than this ; and 
perhaps in no country is it more frequently presented 
than our own. Some of the noblest effusions, which we 
read with a glow of pride at the thought of their Ameri- 
can origin, sprung earnestly from musings that intervals 
of leisure afforded. Like wild flowers that shed a deli- 
cate odour from the interstices of a rocky cliff, they come 
forth in the holiday moments of a toilsome life. And for 
this very cause are they often more vigorous and lovely. 
It is erroneous to commiserate too strongly the ungenial 



252 THOUGHTS ON THE POETS. 

existence to which many poets are doomed. Perhaps 
there are no warmer lovers of the muse than those who 
are only permitted occasionally to gain her favours. The 
shrine is more reverently approached hy the pilgrim from 
afar than the familiar worshipper. Poetry is often more 
beloved by one whose daily vocation is amid the bustle 
of the world. We read of a fountain in Arabia upon 
whose basin is inscribed " drink and away ;" but how 
delicious is that hasty draught, and how long and brightly 
the thought of its transient refreshment dwells in the 
memory ! Contrast is a great element of mental activity. 
The mind of the scholar often becomes dull and morbid 
from the very monotony of his impressions ; while the 
man of ideal spirit, whose lot is cast amid stern realities, 
turns with a passionate interest and the keenest relish to 
intellectual pastime and poetic freedom. His productions 
often have a glow and life which men of ampler oppor- 
tunities vainly strive to attain ; and the spirit of love in 
which he labours makes bright and moving the graces of 
his song. Thus, although Mr. Procter tells us that 

the spirit languishes and lies 

At mercy of life's dull realities ; 

Yet again he exclaims — 

Oh ! never shall thy name, sweet Poesy, 
Be flung away or trampled by the crowd, 
As a thing of little worth, while I aloud 
May (with a feeble voice indeed,) proclaim 
The sanctity, the beauty of thy name. 
Thy grateful servant am I, for thy power 
Has solaced me through many a wretched hour ; 
In sickness, ay, when frame and spirit sank, 
I turned me to thy crystal cup and drank 
Intoxicating draughts 

And again : 

although the muse and I have parted, 

She to her airy height and I to toil. 



BARRY CORNWALL. 253 

Not discontent, nor wroth, nor gloomy-hearted. 
Because I now must till a rugged soil. 

With learned Milton, Steele, and Shakspere sage 
I commune when the labouring day is over. 
Filled with a deep delight, like some true lover 
Whom frowning fate may not entirely sever 
From her whose love, perhaps, is lost forever. 

Procter was at Harrow, with Byron, and while his no- 
ble classmate was enjoying the leisure that fortune se- 
cures, gave his youthful hours to the dry tasks of a con- 
veyancer. At the town of Calne, in. Wiltshire, where he 
was placed in the office of a solicitor, his social advan- 
tages were great, for among the residents were Crahbc, 
Moore and Bowles. The early diversity in the circum- 
stances of Byron and Procter marked their subsequent 
career. Of the noble poet about as much is known as it 
is possible to communicate. The most minute details of 
his life have become public property. His path has been 
traced in all its windings, the particulars of his daily con- 
duct '* set in a note-book," and his most casual talk chron- 
icled. Within a very few years, a play was duly repre- 
sented in the north of Italy, entitled " Lord Byron at 
Venice," in which fact and fiction were ludicrously 
blended. If Procter has no claim to such genius as his 
juvenile companion — if, as he says, 

x\t Harrow, where, as here he has a name, 
I — I 'm not even on the list of fame; 

There remains to the humbler bard rich consolation in 
the thought of having escaped that- microscopic inspec- 
tion and universal comment which marred the peace, and 
profaned the reputation of Byroa. Even when the young 
solicitor chose to emerge from obscurity, and present his 
meek appeal for a place in the English Parnassus, he 
came before the public under the assumed name of Barry 
Cornwall. This title has now become endeared to the 
15 



254 THOUGHTS ON THE POETS. 

Jovers of poetry, and is associated with charming graces 
of diction and overflowings of sentiment that make its 
very mention like the tone of a favourite instrument. It 
is easily gathered from the writings of Procter that his 
life, devoted as it mainly has been to professional labour, 
boasts a tasteful spirit ; — that genius has redeemed and hal- 
lowed it, and that music, books, and flowers, the love of 
woman, the presence of childhood, the companionship of 
the good and the gifted, and fond dalliance with the 
muses, have kept fresh the dreams of youth, and bright- 
ened the stream of daily thought with the starlight of 
poetry. 

The better moments of this man, as revealed in his 
writings, bespeak him of a gentle nature and a modest 
bearing. Ill health and a meditative disposition give a 
pleasing melancholy to many of his productions, but it is 
mingled with a quiet enthusiasm and native tenderness 
that charm without exciting. His most original eflforts 
are the Dramatic Scenes. In certain points of style, 
these are modelled upon the old English dramas ; but 
they abound with a winning simplicity and graceful sen- 
timent evidently born in the poet's mind. There is 
nothing stilted or strained in their flow. Like clear 
streams winding beneath odorous branches, amid flowery 
banks, in the soft moonbeams or cheerful sunshine, they 
steal pleasantly onward. They enlist the reader's sym- 
pathy by a kind of delicate truthfulness, and lead him, as 
they did the public at their first appearance, cordially to 
hail the author as a genuine poet. " Mirandola " is a 
tragedy which combines not a few of the merits of the 
" Dramatic Scenes," and the dialogue is throughout in- 
teresting. " Marcian Colonna " contains passages of 
peculiar power, and describes some of the most subtle of 
human feelings with rare skill. The rhyme is, perhaps, 
too unstudied, and the metre and manner free even to 



BARRY CORNWALL. 255 

carelessness, but there are many felicitous turns of 
thought and expression to balance such defects. " The 
Flood of Thessaly " is an uncommon blank verse poem. 
It is well sustained, and exhibits sometimes a Miltonic 
command of language. Beside these and many other 
elaborate poems, Barry Cornwall has written a volume of 
songs, many of which have become favourites from their 
feeling tone and tasteful simplicity. 

A peculiar attraction in the poetry of this author, is a 
certain spontaneous manner which gives the idea of sin- 
cerity. His best efforts seem unpremeditated. They be- 
gin as if he knew not how they would end. He appears 
to write as the bee stores its honey, from an instinctive 
principle. There is an apparent absence of art, a tone of 
quiet inspiration analogous to that of an improvisatore. 
Some beautiful object, some touching narrative or moving 
experience captivates his mind, and, as if impelled by the 
enthusiasm of the moment, he puts it into rhyme, pausing 
as he goes along, to indulge in a sympathizing reverie, or 
turn aside with an ardent apostrophe. Expression would 
appear easy to Barry Cornwall. Few traces of retention 
of thought and dearth of language are discoverable. 
This delightful freedom, this apparent unconsciousness of 
critical barriers and rules of diction, give a flowing grace 
and a captivating ease to verse that to many readers is an 
essential charm. It is akin to the pleasure of hearing a 
singer who appears to warble like a bird, without effort. 
But the facihty is dangerous. It leads to haste, careless- 
ness, want of finish, and repetition of ideas. The poet's 
gold is often beaten out until it becomes thin and weak : 
the frame is too loose to hold the picture ; the beautiful 
image loses its fine outline, and the deep sentiment its 
force, for want of concentration and delicate care. And 
such are the blemishes in the poetry of Procter. Yet 
certain portions of his poems are wrought with exquisite 



256 THOUGHTS ON THE POETS. 

skill, and display a verbal as well as an intrinsic beauty, 
like the dainty phrases which writers of taste cull from 
the old dramatists. 

Here are some beautiful thoughts sweetly uttered : 
.... How fine 

And marvellous the subtle intellect is. 

Beauty's creator I it adorns the body, 

And lights it like a star. It shines forever. 

And, like, a watch-tower to the infidel. 

Shows there's a land to come. 

. . . .The mind is full 
Or curious changes that perplex itself, 
Just like the visible world ; and the heart ebbs 
Like the great sea, first flows and then retires : 
And on the passions doth the spirit ride, 
Through sunshine and in rain, from good to ill. 
Then to deep vice, and so on back to virtue ; 
Till in the grave, that universal calm, 
We sleep the sleep eternal.. 

In budding, happiness is likest wo : 

Great thought is pain until the strengthened mind 

Can lift it into light : the soul is blind 

Until the suns of years have cleared away 

The film that hangeth round its wedded clay. 

Half the ills we hoard within our hearts. 

Are ills because we hoard them. 

As specimens of fine imagery, take the following : 
A month ago I was ha])py ! No ; 
Not happy, yet encircled by deep joy. 
Which, though 'twas all around, I could not touch 
But it was ever thus with Happiness : 
Jt is the gay to-morrow of the mind 
That never comes. 

.... No matter. 
I'll take my way alone, and burn away — 
Evil or good I care not, so I spread 
Tremendous desolation on my road : 
Til be remembered as huge meteors are. 
By the dismay they scatter. 



BARRY CORNWALL. 257 

I seem to go 
Calmly, yet with a melancholy step, 
Onward, and onward. Is there not a tale 
Of some man (an Arabian as I think) 
Who sailed upon the wide sea many days. 
Tossing about, the sport of winds and waters, 
Until he saw an isle toward which his ship 
Suddenly turned ? there is : and he was drawn. 
As by a magnet on, slowly, until 
The vessel neared the isle ; and then it flew 
Quick as a shooting star, and dashed itself 
To pieces. Methinks I am that man. 

She came amidst the lovely and the proud, 
Peerless ; and when she moved the gallant crowd 
Divided, as the obsequious vapors light 
Divide to let the queen moon pass by night. 

.... Hail 
Shot shattering down, and thunders roared aloud, 
And the wild lightning from his dripping shroud 
Unbound his arrowy pinions blue and pale, 
And darted through the heavens. 

Sentiment is the characteristic of Barry Cornwall. 
He certainly has written some descriptive fragments of 
striking beauty, but his pictures of scenery possess no 
great originality. They remind us of other poets. 
Their traits are of a general kind, and do not often con- 
stitute the chief attraction of the poem. It is in unfold- 
ing a sentiment, in giving expression to feeling, that we 
chiefly recognize the individuality of this minstrel. 
Whatever the reader may think of his eye for nature or 
the scope of his fancy, he cannot fail to realize his sen- 
sibility and tenderness. He evidently delights in por- 
traying the workings of the heart. Without the passion 
of Byron, the directness of Burns, or the reflective power 
of Wordsworth, Barry Cornwall possesses a delicacy and 
reflned earnestness of soul that enables him to speak of 



258 THOUGHTS ON THE POETS. 

love with a rare and touching grace. Hence his poems 
are chiefly based upon tales of " the sweet south." He 
has sought in warm climes and among an imaginative 
race the materials of his song. There is no modern 
English poet who surpasses our author in delineating the 
tender passion. His women are like those of Shakspere, 
the very creatures of aflfection. They live and move 
only in an atmosphere of sentiment. Scattered through 
his works we have the most charming delineations of 
human feeling as modified by mental refinement and a 
fanciful spirit. There is a kind of staple imagery for 
love-scenes that is easily appropriated. A very respecta- 
ble tone of devotion can be invented without difficulty; 
but the poetry of affection that moves, must be sincere. It 
must spring from a nature capable of deep and romantic 
feeling. Its hues must be caught from the rosy flame it 
would depict ; and its tenderness flow from the fountains 
of emotion in the heart of the bard. Thus is it with 
much of the poetry of Barry Cornwall, as a few con- 
cluding extracts will illustrate : 

I thought thou wast my better angel, doomed 

To guide me through this solitary life 

To some far-off immortal place. 

Where spirits of good assemble to keep watch. 

Till the foundations of the Earth shall fail. 

Iloved thee as beca?ne mortality 

Glancing at heaven. 

.... I have quaffed 
Life from the lips of beauty, and shall I 
Who 've banqueted like a god, be now content 
With meagre fare, or trust to mortal drugs, 
And run a common idler through the world^ 
With not a heart to own me ? 

Oh ! thou bright Heaven, if thou art calling now 
Thy brighter angels to thy bosom-rest, 
For lo ! the brightest of thy host is gone — 



BARRY CORNWALL. 

Departed — and the earth is dark below. 
From land to land I '11 roam, in all a stranger, 
And as the body gains a braver look 
By staring in the face of many winds. 
So from the sad aspects of different things 
My soul shall pluck a courage and bear up 
Against the past. 

. . . My love, my love ! 
How proudly will we pass our lives together; 
And wander heart-linked through the busy world. 
Like birds in Eastern story. 

Give me an intellectual, nobler life ; 
Not fighting like the herded elephants, which. 
Beckoned by some fierce slave, go forth to war, 
And trample in the dust their fellow-brute. 
But let me live amongst high thoughts and smiles 
As beautiful as love ; with grasping hands, 
And a heart that flutters with diviner life, 
Where'er my step is heard. 

My own sweet love ! oh ! my dear, peerless wife ! 
By the blue sky and all its crowding stars, 
I love you better — oh ! far better than 
Woman was ever loved. There's not an hour 
Of day or dreaming night but I am with thee : 
There's not a wind but whispers of thy name. 
And not a flower that sleeps beneath the moon 
But in its hues or fragrance tells a tale 
Of thee, my love, to thy Mirandola. 

.... No voice of parent spoke 
Ungentle words, which now too often mar 
Life's first fair passion : then no gods of gold 
Usurping swayed with bitter tyranny 
That sad domain, the heart. Love's rule was free, 
(Ranging through boundless air, and happy heaven 
And earth,) when Pyrrha wed the Titan's son. 

.... there she pined, 
Pale as a prophetess whose labouring mind 



260 THOUGHTS ON THE POETS. 

Gives out its knowledge ; but her upraised eyes 
Sho7ie mith the languid light of one who loves or dies. 

Then Love came — Love ! How like a star it streamed 

In infancy upon me, till I dreamed, 

And 't was as pure and almost cold a light. 

And led me to the sense of such delight 

As children know not ; so at last I grew 

Enamour'd of beauty and soft pain. 
And felt mysterious pleasure wander through 

My heart, and animate my childish brain. 

He loved : Oh how he loved ! his heart was full 
Of that immortal passion, which alone 

Holds through the wide world its eternal rule 
Supreme, and with its deep, seducing tone, 

Winneth the wise, the young, the beautiful. 
The brave, and all to bow before its throne ; 

The sun and soul of life, the end, the gain, 

The rich requital of an age of pain. 

0, melancholy Love ! amid thy fears. 

Thy darkness, thy despair, there runs a vein 

Of pleasure, like a smile 'midst many tears — 
The pride of sorrow that will not complain — " 

The exultation that in after years 

The loved one will discover — and in vain. 

How much the heart silently in its cell 

Did suffer till it hi oke, yet nothing tell. 

Else — wherefore else doth lovely woman keep 
Lock'd in her heart of hearts, from every gaze 

Hidden, her struggling passion — wherefore weep 
In grief that never while it flows allays 

Those tumults in the bosom buried deep, 

And robs her bright eyes of their natural rays. 

Creation^ s sweetest riddle ! yet remain 

Just as thou art — man's only worthy gain. 

Oh power of love, so fearful and so fair — 
Life of our life on earth, yet kin to care — 
Oh ! thou day-dreaming spirit, who dost look 
Upon the future as the charmed book 
Of Fate, were opened to thine eyes alone — 



1BAKSY CORNWALL. 281 

Thou who dost cull from moments stolen and gone 

Into eternity, memorial things, 

To deck the days to come — thy revellings 

Were glorious and beyond all others. Thou 

Didst banquet upon beauty once ; and now 

The ambrosial feast is ended ! Let it be 

Enough to say, " it was.^' Oh ! upon me 

From thy o'ershadowing wings ethereal 

Shake odorous airs, so may my senses all 

Be spell-bound to thy service, beautiful power. 

And on the breath of every coming hour 

Send me faint tidings of the things that were. 

Quick are fond women's sights and clear their powers, 
They live in moments years, an age in hours ; 
Through every movement of the heart they run 
In a brief period with a courser's speed. 
And mark, decide, reject; but if indeed 
They smile on Us — oh ! as the eternal sun 
Forms and illuminates all to which this earth. 
Impregnate by his glance, has given birth, 
Even so the smile of woman stamps our fates, 
Jlnd consecrates the love it first creates ! 



MRS. HEM ANS 



We have heard much of late regarding the rights and 
sphere of woman. The topic has become trite. One 
branch of the discussion, hovv^ever, is worthy of careful 
notice — the true theory of cultivated and liberal men on 
the subject. This has been greatly misunderstood. Tho 
idea has been often suggested that man is jealous of his 
alleged intellectual superiority, while little has been ad- 
vanced in illustration of his genuine reverence for female 
character. Because the other sex cannot always find 
erudition so attractive as grace in woman, and strong 
mental traits so captivating as a beautiful disposition, it 
is absurdly argued that mind and learning are only 
honoured in masculine attire. The truth is, men of feel- 
ing instinctively recognize something higher than intel- 
lect. They feel that a noble and true soul is greater and 
more delightful than mere reason, however powerful; 
and they know that to this, extensive knowledge and ac- 
tive logical powers are not essential. It is not the attain- 
ments, or the literary talent, that they would have women 
abjure. They only pray that through and above these 
may appear the woman. They desire that the harmony 
of Nature may not be disturbed ; that the essential founda- 
tions of love may not be invaded ; that the sensibility, 
delicacy and quiet enthusiasm of the female heart may 
continue to awaken in man the t nder reverence, which 
is one of the most elevating of his sentiments. 



MRS. HEMANS. 263 

Portia is highly intellectual ; but even while arrayed 
in male costume and enacting the public advocate, the 
essential and captivating characteristics of her true sex 
inspire her mien and language. Vittoria Colonna was 
one of the most gifted spirits of her age — the favourite 
companion of Michael Angelo, but her life and works 
were but the eloquent development of exalted woman- 
hood. Madame Roland displayed a strength of charac- 
ter singularly heroic, but her brave dignity was perfectly 
feminine. Isabella of Spain gave evidence of a mind 
remarkably comprehensive, and a rare degree of judg- 
ment; yet in perusing her history, we are never beguiled 
from the feeling of her queenly character. There is an 
essential quality of sex, to be felt rather than described, 
and it is when this is marred, that a feeling of disappoint- 
ment is the consequence. It is as if we should find vio- 
lets growing on a tall tree. The triumphs of mind al- 
ways command respect, but their style and trophies have 
diverse complexions in the two sexes. It is only when 
these distinctions are lost, that they fail to interest. It 
matters not how erudite or mentally gifted a woman may 
be, so that she remains in manner and feeling a woman. 
Such is the idea that man loves to see realized ; and in 
cherishing it, he gives the highest proof of his estimation 
of woman. He delights to witness the exercise of her 
noblest prerogative. He is charmed to behold her in the 
most effective attitude. He appreciates too truly the 
beauty and power of her nature to wish to see it arrayed 
in any but a becoming dress. There is such a thing as 
female science, philosophy and poetry, as there is female 
physiognomy and taste ; not that their absolute qualities 
differ in the two sexes, but their relative aspect is dis- 
tinct. Their sphere is as large and high, and infinitely 
more delicate and deep than that of man, though not so 
obvious. When they overstep their appropriate domain, 



264 THOUGHTS ON THE POETS. 

much of their mental influence is lost. Freely and purely 
exerted, it is at once recognized and loved. Man de- 
lights to meet woman in the field of letters as well as in 
the arena of social life. There also is she his better an- 
gel. With exquisite satisfaction he learns at her feet 
the lessons of mental refinement and moral sensibility. 
From her teachings he catches a grace and sentiment un- 
written by his own sex. Especially in poetry, beams, 
with starlike beauty, the light of her soul. There he 
reads the records of a woman's heart. He hears from 
her own lips how the charms of Nature and the mysteries 
of Life have wrought in her bosom. Of such women, 
Mrs. Hemans is the most cherished of our day. 

Life is the prime source of literature, and especially of 
its most effective and universal departments. Poetry 
should, therefore, be the offspring of deep experience. 
Otherwise it is superficial and temporary. What phase 
of existence is chiefly revealed to woman ? Which do- 
main of experience is she best fitted by her nature and 
position to illustrate? Undoubtedly, the influence and 
power of the affections. In these, her destiny is more 
completely involved, through these her mind more exclu- 
sively acts, than is the case with our sex. Accordingly, 
her insight is greater, and her interest more extensive in 
the sphere of the heart. With a quicker sympathy, and 
a finer perception, will she enter into the history and re- 
sults of the affections. Accordingly, when the mantle of 
song falls upon a woman, we cannot but look for new 
revelations of sentiment. Not that the charms of Nature 
and the majesty of great events may not appropriately at- 
tract her muse ; but with and around these, if she is a 
true poetess, we see ever entwined the delicate flowers 
that flourish in the atmosphere of home, and are reared 
to full maturity only under the training of woman. Thus 
the poe^ in her character finds free development. She 



MRS. HE MANS. 



265 



can here speak with authority. It is, indeed, irreverent 
to dictate to genius, but the themes of female poetry are 
written in the very structure of the soul. Political eco- 
nomy may find devotees among the gentler sex ; and so 
an approach to the mental hardihood of Lady Macbeth 
may appear once in the course of an age ; whereas, every 
year we light on the traces of a Juliet, a Cleopatra and 
an Isabel. The spirit of Mrs. Hemans in all she has 
written, is essentially feminine. Various as are her sub- 
jects, they are stamped with the same image and super- 
scription. She has drawn her prevailing vein of feeling 
from one source. She has thrown over all her effusions, 
not so much the drapery of knowledge, or the light of 
extensive observation, as the warm and shifting hues of 
the heart. These she had at command. She knew their 
effect, and felt their mystery. Hence the lavish confi- 
dence with which she devoted them to the creations of 
fancy and the illustration of truth. 

From the voice of her own consciousness, Mrs. He- 
mans realized what a capacity of joy and sorrow, of 
strength and weakness, exists in the human heart. This 
she made it her study to unfold. The " Restoration of the 
Works of Art to Italy," is, as Byron said when it appeared, 
a very good poem. It is a fine specimen of heroic verse. 
The subject is treated with judgment and ability, and the 
spirit which pervades the work is precisely what, the oc- 
casion demanded. Still we feel that any cultivated and 
ideal mind might have produced the poem. There are 
no peculiar traits, no strikingly original conceptions. The 
same may be said of several of her long pieces. It is in 
the " Songs of the Affections," and the " Records of Wo- 
man," that the poetess is preeminently excellent. Here the 
field is emphatically her own. She ranges it with a free 
step and a queenly bearing ; and everywhere rich flowers 
spring up in her path, and a glowing atmosphere, like the 



266 THOUGHTS ON THE POETS. 

rosy twilight of her ancestral land, enlivens and illumines 
her progress. In these mysterious ties of love, there is 
to her a world of poetry. She not only celebrates their 
strength and mourns their fragility, but with pensive ar- 
dour, dwells on their eternal destiny. The birth, the 
growth, the decline, the sacrifices, the whole morality and 
spirituality of human love, is recognized and proclaimed 
by her muse. Profoundly does she feel the richness and 
the sadness, the glory and the gloom, involved in the af- 
fections. She thinks it 

A fearful thing that Love and Death may dwell 
In the same world I 

And reverently she declares that 

.... He that sits above 
In his calm glory, will forgive the love 
His creatures bear each other, even if blent 
With a vain worship, for its*close is dim 
Ever with grief, which leads the wrung soul back to Him. 

Devotion continually blends with and exalts her views 
of human sentiment : 

I know, I know our love 
Shall yet call gentle angels from above. 
By its undying fervor 

Oh ! we have need of patient faith below. 
To clear away the mysteries of wo ! 

Bereavement has found in Mrs. Hemans, a worthy re 
corder of its deep and touching poetry : 

But, oh ! sweet Friend ! we dream not of Love's might 
Till Death has robed with soft and solemn light 
The image w^e enshrine ! — Before that hour, 
We have but glimpses of the o'ermastering power 
Within us laid ! — then doth the spirit-flame 
With sword-like lightning rend its mortal frame ; 
The wings of that which pants to follow fast, 
Shake their clay-bars, as with a prisoned blast, — 
The sea is in our souls ! . . . . 



MRS. HEMANS. 267 

But thou ! whose thoughts have no blest home above, 
Captive of earth ! and canst thou dare to love ? 
To nurse such feelings as delight to rest 
Within that hallowed shrine a parent's breast ? 

To fix each hope, concentrate every tie, 

On one frail idol, — destined but to die ! 

Yet mock the faith that points to worlds of light. 

Where severed souls, made perfect, re-unite ? 

Then tremble ! cling to every passing joy, 

Twined with the life a moment may destroy ! 

If there be sorrow in a parting tear. 

Still let '■'■forever " vibrate on thine ear ! 

If some bright hour on rapture's wing hath flown, 

Find more than anguish in the thought — 'tis gone ; 

Go ! to a voice such magic influence give, 

Thou canst not lose its melody and live ; 

And make an eye the lode-star of thy soul. 

And let a glance the springs of thought control ; 

Gaze on a mortal form with fond delight. 

Till the fair vision mingles with thy sight ; 

There seek thy blessings, there repose thy trust. 

Lean on the willow, idolize the dust ! 

Then when thy treasure best repay^thy care, 

Think on that dread '^forever," and despair. 

The distinguishing attribute of the poetry of Mrs. He- 
mans is feeling. She sings fervently of the King of 
Arragon, musing upon his slain brother, in the midst of a 
victorious festival, — of the brave boy perishing at the bat- 
tle of the Nile, at the post assigned him by his father, — 
of Del Carpio upbraiding the treacherous king : — 

"Into these glassy eyes put light, — be still! keep down thine 

ire, — 
Bid these white lips a blessing speak, this earth is not my sire ! 
Give me back him for whom I strove, for whom my blood was 

shed, — 
Thou canst not — and a king ? — His dust be mountains on thy 

head !" 
He loosed the steed ; his slack hand fell, — upon the silent face 
He cast one long, deep, troubled look, — then turned from that sad 

place. 



268 THOUGHTS ON THE POETS. 

His hope was crushed, his after-fate untold in martial strain, — 
His banner led the spears no more amidst the hills of Spain. 

With how true a sympathy does she trace the prison 
musings of Arabella Stuart, portray the strife of the heart 
in the Greek bride, and the fidelity of woman in the wife 
soothing her husband's dying agonies on the wheel ! 
What a pathetic charm breathes in the pleadings of the 
" Adopted Child," and the meeting of Tasso and his Sis- 
ter. How well she understood the hopelessness of ideal 
love ! 

ask not, hope thou not too much 

Of sympathy below — 
Few are the hearts whence one same touch 

Bid the sweet fountains flow : 
Few and by still conflicting powers, 

Forbidden here to meet — 
Such ties would make this world of ours 
Too fair for aught so fleet. 

Nor is it alone in mere sensibility that the poetess ex- 
cels. The loftiness and the dignity of her sex has few 
nobler interpreters. What can be finer in its kind than 
the Swiss wife's appeal to her husband's patriotism ? 
Her poems abound in the worthiest appeals to woman's 
faith : 

Her lot is on you — silent tears to weep, 

And patient smiles to wear through Suffering's hour. 
And sumless riches from Affection's deep. 

To pour on broken reeds — a wasted shower ! 
And to make idols, and to find Ihem Clay, 
And to bewail their worship — therefore pray ! 

To depict the parting grief of the Hebrew mother, the 
repentant tears of Coeur de Lion at his father's bier, the 
home associations of the Eastern stranger at the sight of 
a palm-tree — these, and such as these, were congenial 
themes to Mrs. Hernans. Joyous as is her welcome to 
Spring, thoughts of the departed solemnize its beauty. 
She invokes the Ocean not for its gem.s and buried gold, 



MRS. HEMANS. 269 

but for the true and brave that sleep in its bosom. The 
bleak arrival of the New-England Pilgrims, and the eve- 
ning devotion of the Italian peasant-girl, are equally con- 
secrated by her muse. Where there is profound love, 
exalted patriotism, and " a faith touching all things with 
hues of Heaven," — there she rejoiced to expatiate. Fair 
as Elysium appeared to her fancy, she celebrates its 
splendour only to reproach its rejection of the lowly and 
the loved ; 

For the most loved are they, 
Of whom Fame speaks not with her clarion voice 
In regal halls ! the shades o'erhung their way. 
The vale with its deep fountain is their choice. 

And gentle hearts rejoice 
Around their steps ! till silently they die, , 
As a stream shrinks from summer's burning eye. 

And the world knows not then, 
Not then, nor ever, what pure thoughts are fled ! 
Yet these are they that on the souls of men 
Come back, when night her folding veil hath spread. 

The long remembered dead ! 
But not with thee might aught save glory dwell — 
Fade, fade away, thou shore of Asphodel ! 

It was the opinion of Dr. Spurzheim, an accurate and 
benevolent observer of life, that suffering was essential to 
the rich development of female character. It is interest- 
ing to trace the influence of disappointment and trial in 
deepening and exalting the poetry of Mrs. Hemans. 
From the sentimental character of her muse, results the 
sameness of which some readers complain in perusing her 
works. This apparent monotony only strikes us when 
we attempt to read them consecutively. But such is not 
the manner in which we should treat a poetess who so 
exclusively addresses our feelings. Like Petrarch's son- 
nets, her productions delight most when separately enjoy- 
ed. Her careful study of poetry as an art, and her truly 



270 THOUGHTS ON THE POETS. 

conscientious care in choosing- her language and forming 
her verse, could not, even if it were desirable, prevent 
the formation of a certain* style. It is obvious, also, that 
her efforts are unequal. The gems, however, are more 
profusely scattered, than through the same amount of wri- 
ting by almost any other modern poet. The department 
of her muse was a high and sacred one. The path she 
pursued was one especially heroic, inasmuch as her 
efforts imply the exertion of great enthusiasm. Such 
lyrics as we love in her pages, are " fresh from the 
fount of feeling." They have stirred the blood of thou- 
sands. They have kindled innumerable hearts on both 
sides of the sea. They have strewn imperishable flow- 
ers around the homes and graves of two nations. They 
lift the thoughts, like an organ's peal, to a " better land," 
and quicken the purest sympathies of the soul into a 
truer life and more poetic beauty. 

The taste of Mrs. Hemans was singularly elegant. 
She delighted in the gorgeous and imposing. There is a 
remarkable fondness for splendid combination, warlike 
pomp, and knightly pageantry betrayed in her writings. 
Her fancy seems bathed in a Southern atmosphere. We 
trace her Italian descent in the very flow and imagery of 
her verse. There is far less of Saxon boldness of de- 
sign and simplicity of outline, than of the rich colouring 
and luxuriant grouping of a warmer clime. Akin to this 
trait was her passion for Art. She used to say that Mu- 
sic was part of her life. In fact, the mind of the poetess 
was essentially romantic. Her muse was not so easily' 
awakened by the sight of a beautiful object, as by the 
records of noble adventure. Her interest was chiefly 
excited by the brave and touching in human experience. 
Nature attracted her rather from its associations with God 
and humanity, than on account of its abstract and abso- 
lute qualities. This forms the great distinction between 



MRS. HEMANS. 271 

her poetry and that of Wordsworth. In the midst of the 
fine scenery of Wales, her infant faculties unfolded. 
There began her acquaintance with life and books. We 
are told of her great facility in acquiring languages, her 
relish of Shakspere at the age of six, and her extraor- 
dinary memory. It is not difficult to understand how 
her ardent feelings and rich imagination developed, 
with peculiar individuality, under such circumstances. 
Knightly legends, tales of martial enterprise — the poetry 
of courage and devotion, fascinated her from the first. 
But when her deeper feelings were called into play, and 
the latent sensibiUties of her nature sprung to conscious 
action, much of this native romance was transferred to 
the scenes of real life, and the struggles of the heart. 

The earlier and most elaborate of her poems are, in a 
great measure, experimental. It seems as if a casual 
fancy for the poetic art gradually matured into a devoted 
love. Mrs. Hemens drew her power less from percep- 
tion than sympathy. Enthusiasm, rather than graphic 
talent, is displayed in her verse. . We shall look in vain 
for any remarkable pictures of the outward world. Her 
great aim was not so much to describe as to move. We 
discover few scenes drawn by her pen, which strike us 
as wonderfully true to physical fact. She does not make 
us see so much as feel. Compared with most great poets, 
she saw but little of the world. The greater part of her 
life was passed in retirement. Her knowledge of distant 
lands was derived from books. Hence she makes little 
pretension to the poetry of observation. Sketches copied 
directly from the visible universe are rarely encountered 
in her works. For such portraiture her mind was not 
remarkably adapted. There was another process far 
more congenial to her — the personation of feeling. She 
loved to sing of inciting events, to contemplate her race 
in an heroic attitude, to explore the depths of the soul, and 



272 



THOUGHTS ON THE POETS 



amid the shadows of despair and the tumult of passion, 
point out some element of love or faith unquenched by 
the storm. Her strength lay in earnestness of soul. 
Her best verses glow with emotion. When once truly 
interested in a subject, she cast over it such an air of feel- 
ing that our sympathies are won at once. We cannot 
but catch the same vivid impression ; and if we draw from 
her pages no great number of definite images, we cannot 
out imbibe what is more valuable — the warmth and the 
life of pure, lofty, and earnest emotion. 



TENNYSON. 



The impression often given by Tennyson is similar to 
that derived from the old painters. There is a voluptuous 
glow in his colouring, warm and rich as that of Titian, 
yet often subdued by the distinct outline and chastened 
tone of the Roman school ; while the effect of the whole 
is elevated by the pure expressiveness of Raphael. This 
is especially observable in all his love-sketches. Indeed 
we are inclined to believe that Tennyson is a poet chiefly 
through his sentiment. Not a grace of female character, 
not a trait of womanly attraction is lost upon him ; and 
yet it is not a Flemish exactitude that charms us in his 
portraiture ; on the contrary, what we recognize most cor- 
dially is his vagueness. He does not give the detail of 
character or person, nor elaborately depict a love-scene, 
nor minutely analyze a sentiment ; but rather affords a 
few expressive hints that, like pebbles thrown into a calm 
stream, create ever-widening circles of association. If 
such an idea may be allowed, Tennyson deals rather in 
atmospheres than outlines. The effect of his best des- 
criptive touches is owing chiefly to the collateral senti- 
ment in the light of which they are drawn. In the 
" Miller's Daughter," for instance : 

*' The meal-sack on the whitened floor, 

The dark round of the dripping wheel. 
The very air about the door 

Made misty with the floating meal ;*' — 



274 THOUGHTS ON THE POETS. 

is very Crabbe-like, but in the poem it is doubly pictur- 
esque be^iause so naturally inspired by the memory of 
love. To use one of his own happy expressions, Ten- 
nyson is a " summer-pilot " to those who can heartily 
abandon themselves to his guidance. He gives, it may 
be, but glimpses of Nature, but they are such as to an 
imaginative mind, supersede and far surpass the tedious 
limning of less gifted poets. It has been remarked by a 
celebrated writer, that " the poet and artist has two things 
to do ; to lift himself above the real, and to keep within 
the circle of the sensuous." In some of Tennyson's po- 
ems this law is exquisitely observed and illustrated. A 
series of physical descriptions constantly make us sensi- 
ble of the actual world, while inwrought with this, the 
feeling of the piece, whether love, sorrow, or remorse, is 
kept vividly before us in all its abstract significance. As 
an instance, take " Mariana." We may notice, by the 
way, that this is a beautiful example of a true poet's sug- 
gestiveness. In " Measure for Measure " we have but 
a glance at this " poor gentlewoman." Tennyson intro- 
duces us to the " moated grange," so that we see her in 
all her desolation. " The rusted nails that fell from the 
knots that held the peach to the garden wall " — the moss 
crusted on the flower-pots — the poplar that " shook alway," 
and even the " blue fly that sung in the pane," are im- 
ages full of graphic meaning, and give us the lonely sen- 
sation that belongs to the deserted mansion ; and when, 
at the close of each stanza, the melancholy words of Ma- 
riana, bewailing her abandonment, fall on the ear with 
their sad cadence, we take in as completely the whole 
scene and sentiment as if identified with it. He is not, 
however, invariably as well sustained in his efforts; in 
fact, while we do justice to Tennyson's peculiar excellen- 
cies, we cannot but admit that when half developed or 
pushed to extremes, they become defects ; and this ac- 



TENNYSON. 275 

counts for the remarkable difference of opinion which 
has been manifested in regard to him. No person of 
sentiment, (I use the word in its best sense,) can fail to 
espouse his claims with enthusiasm, for he has gone sin- 
gularly near the heart of this mystery and written there- 
on with authority. Still he is sometimes grotesque and 
his feehng occasional^ is morbid. He has performed 
some miracles of versification, and achieved verbal melo- 
dies, especially in his ballads, that vindicate most sweetly 
our so-called harsh Saxon idiom. Still even on this 
score he is chargeable at least with carelessness ; yet is 
he one of those of whose faults we speak regretfully. 
His genius is, indeed, too precious for cavilling ; let us ra- 
ther endeavour to note some of its traits. 

There is more or less of pathos in all true beauty. 
The delight it awakens has an undefinable and, as it 
were, luxurious sadness, which is perhaps one element of 
its might. It may be that this feeling springs from a 
sense of unattained good, of a perfection of being quite at 
variance with the present, which the beautiful never fails 
to suggest, — in the thought of " beauty and anguish walk- 
ing hand in hand, the downward road to death ;" or it may 
originate in that half-conscious memory of pre-existence 
to which are so often referred the aspirations of the 
heart. It is this blending of admiration and pity, of ten- 
derness and awe which is the best indication of poetry 
both as an instinct and an art. If in reading or hearing 
read any production for the first time, these primal emo- 
tions are awakened, if an almost infinite capacitv seems 
all at once revived, and while melted with a kind of" 
pleading love, we are at the same time exalted by venera- 
tion — the spirit of poetry is in and around us. Were 
the feeling all pleasure it might be merely imaginative ; 
were it chiefly the zest of novelty it might be gratified 
curiosity ; but the " fearful joy" of the mood in question 



276 THOUGHTS ON THE POETS. 

is bom where the senses and the soul meet and respond 
to one appeal — where the former thoroughly perceive and 
the latter deeply feels the glory of life and nature. 
*' From my little experience," says a great poet of our 
own age, " thus much has become clear to me, that upon 
the whole one cannot through poetry make people happy, 
but, on the contrary, very uncomfortable." To stir asso- 
ciations which mar the complacency of prosaic existence ; 
to renew youth's dreams until they glow in painful con- 
trast with subsequent reality ; to set forth with beauty 
that persuades even against our will ; — the fair ideal — thus 
conforming " the show of things to the desires of the 
soul," is to touch many a chord of wild regret and sug- 
gest numberless hopes too lofty for easy realization. 
Hence it is only in an heroic spirit that the influence of 
poetry can be made consoling ; it is only in the heart 
which adores truth that " a thing of beauty is a joy for- 
ever." Not to passive recipients of pleasurable reveries 
does the true bard minister. He moves us through our 
deepest sympathies ; and the best evidence of his presence 
is felt " along the line of limitless desires." That Alfred 
Tennyson thus affects the reader who in any degree en- 
ters into his spirit is undeniable ; and that he thus tri- 
umphs somewhat after an original method is equally 
clear ; and this, in gratitude and sympathy, we can affirm 
without denying that his tone is, at times, not quite health- 
ful, and his style occasionally emasculated by petty and 
needless affectation. 

He has evidently fed his imagination at the best foun- 
tains. We trace continually his intimacy with Shaks- 
pere and Dante. In the " Dream of Fair Women," the 
beautiful description of Cleopatra is evidently drawn from 
the " wrangling queen whom everything becomes," of 
the great dramatist. 



TENNYSON. 277 

" We coursed about 
The subject most at heart, more near and near. 
Like doves about a dovecote, wheeling round 
The central wish, until we settled there. 

This fine metaphor we find thus expressed by the 
" grim Tuscan :" 

" Quali colombe dal disio chiamate. 

Con I'ali aperte a ferme al dolce nido 

Vengon per aere da voler portate."* 

But he makes the wisest use of Dante in frequently 
adopting the sententious and suggestive manner before 
alluded to. It is characteristic of Tennyson, admirably 
to improve familiar materials. Warmed by his imagina- 
tion, clad in his felicitous language, or penetrated by his 
refined sentiment, the hackneyed theme or common ob- 
ject, are re-produced with a new and endearing beauty. 
How finely has he wrought up the old legend of Godiva. 
The description of her unrobing is just such a gem in its 
way, as the same incident in " The Eve of St. Agnes." 
" Then fled she to her inmost bower and there 

Unclasped the wedded eagles of her belt. 
The grim Earl's gift ; but ever at a breath 

She lingered, looking like a summer moon 
Half dipped in cloud ; anon she shook her head, 

And showered the rippled ringlets to her knee ; 
Unclad herself in haste ; adown the stair 

Stole on ; and like a creeping sunbeam, slid 
From pillar unto pillar, till she reached 

The gateway ; there she found her palfrey trapt 
In purple, emblazoned with armorial gold." 

Some passages of the " Lotos Eaters," give a sensa- 
tion of luxurious repose far more consciously than the 
Castle of Indolence. How definitely the following 
stanza transports us to a beach— 

" So shape chased shape as swift as when to land 

Bluster the winds and tides the self same way, 

* luferno ; Canto V 

16* 



278 THOUGHTS ON THE POETS, 

Crisp foam-flakes scud along the level sand 
Torn from the fringe of spray ; 

And this to a woodland — 

Growths of jasmine turned 
Their humid arms festooning tree to tree. 
And at their root through lush green grasses burned 
The red anemone. 

In the following verses we have presented three favour- 
ite subjects of the old masters, copied as it were, in 
dainty verbal mosaic : 

•' Or sweet Europa's mantle blew unclasp'd 
From off her shoulder backward borne, 

From one hand droop'd a crocus ; one hand gra^'d 
The wild bull's golden horn. 
****** 

" Or else flushed Ganymede, his rosy thigh 

Half buried in the eagle's down, 

Sole as a flying star shot through the sky 

Above^he pillar'd town. 
* * * * * 

'' Or the maid-mother by a crucifix, 

In tracts of pasture sunny-warm, 
Beneath branch-work of costly sardonyx. 

Sat smiling babe in arm." 

Truth is the aim and essence of poetry as of science 
and art. It is in the endeaA^our to attain the essential 
features of a landscape, or the absolute facts of a moral 
experience, to bring them out almost palpably and to take 
them home to the reader's perception and sympathy — 
that the poet exercises his peculiar vocation. He may be 
said to be in love with Truth ; and as Thomson was en- 
amoured of the phenomena of outward nature, Byron of 
the adventurous, and Shelley of the ideal, Tennyson 
seems the devoted lover of truth in human relations, and 
especially in those based on voluntary sympathy and in- 
stinctive attraction. He has faith in that comfort which 
springs only from " division of the records of the mind." 
He is one of those 



TENNYSON. S79 

" Dowered with the hate of hate, the scorn of scorn, 
The love of love.'' 

We know not a more clear and effective plea against 
inconstancy — a more just and at the same time convin- 
cing argument in favour of the soul's rights as opposed 
to external benefits, than " Locksley Hall." Never, in 
our language at least, has infidelity, its consequences and 
influence been so truly exemplified. The workings of a 
noble mind under the withering consciousness of wasted 
and baffled affection, appear in undisguised earnestness. 
Few single poems have awakened more responses. To 
the large number who have compromised their senti- 
ment, its stately lines must be as arrows of remorse ; to 
the faithless it offers a picture of the evil they have caus- 
ed, that silence the benign excuse — " they know not what 
they do" ; and to the betrayed it revives in characters of 
fire, the hour of their self-pity and tearful scorn ! In this 
poem we have the appeal of Love against Gain ; in 
" Vere de Vere," " Lady Clare" and " The Lord of Bur- 
leiglr" — against Birth. " Dora" is a sweet pastoral, hint- 
ing the effect of familiarity upon the affections. " The 
Talking Oak" gives expression to love in its flower, and 
the " Miller's Daughter" m its fruition ; while the birth 
©f the passion is described vvith smgular delicacy in the 
" Gardener's Daughter." 

In these and similar compositions, Tennyson opens new 
leaves in the heart ; he bathes the fancy in the most 
entrancing illusions, and leads us gently back to the sour- 
ces of rich and heavenly feeling. Nor is his sentiment 
mere tenderness ; from the idea of loyalty amid obstacles, 
or self-sacrifico to the sense of right, it often is associated 
with the noblest resolution and the sweetest dignity. He 
asks ; 

" Of love that never found an earthly close, 
What sequel ? Streaming eyes and breaking hearts ? 
Or all I he same as if he had not been ? 



280 THOUGHTS ON THE POETS. 

" If this were thus, if this indeed were all. 
Better the narrow brain, the stony heart. 
The staring eye glazed o'er with sapless days. 
The long, mechanic pacing, to and fro. 
The set gray life and apathetic end. 
But am 1 not the nobler through thy love 7 
O these times less unworthy ! likewise thou 
Art more through love, and greater than thy years. 
The sun will run his orbit and the moon 
Her circle. Wait, and Love himself will bring 
The drooping power of Knowledge changed to fruit 
Of Wisdom. Wait : my faith is large in Time, 
And that which shapes it to some perfect end'' 

" Love and Duty," from which this extract is gleaned, 
reminds us of the selectest passages of the old dramatists 
in its united clearness and fervour. Who that has ever 
renounced from principle that to which his soul clung, 
feels not the significance of such language as this ? 

" then, like those that clench their nerves to rush 
Upon their dissolution, we two rose. 
There — closing like an individual life — 
In one blind cry of passion and of pain, 4 

Like bitter accusation even to death. 
Caught up the whole of love and uttered it y 
And bade adieu forever . 



MISS BARRETT 



GBinnNE verse is an excellent safety-valve. I once 
heard the publication of a lady's effusions regretted by 
one of her sex, on the ground that she had " printed her 
soul." The objection is not without significance to a re- 
fined nature, but its force is much diminished by the fact 
that poetry is " caviare to the general." It is the few- 
alone who possess any native relish for the muse, and a 
still more select audience who can trace the limits between 
fancy and the actual, or discover the separate fruits of 
personal experience and mere observation. Those capa- 
ble of thus identifpng the emanations of the mind with 
traits of character, and recognizing the iimate desires or 
peculiar affections of a writer, and plucking out the heart 
of his myster}^ will be the very ones to reverence his se- 
cret, or at least to treat it with delicacy. The truth is, 
no one can reach the fountains of emotion in another, ex- 
cept through s}Tnpathy — and there is a freemasonry, an 
instinctive mutual understanding thus awakened, which 
makes the revelation sacred. Accordingly there is little 
danger of a compromise of self-respect in uttering to the 
world our inward life, if any proper degree of tact and 
dignity is observed. The lovers of poetr}^ are thus gra- 
tified ; the deeper sentiments and higher aspirations of 
the universal heart are confirmed; solace is afforded the 
unhappy by confessions of kindred sorrow — and all the 
while, the privacy of the indi\ddual isuninvaded. At the 



282 T H U*G HTS ON THE POETS. 

same time, let us acknowledge that authorship, as a career, 
is undesirablej'or a woman. Only when duty lends her 
sanction, or pre-eminent gifts seem almost to anticipate 
destiny, can the most brilliant exhibition of talent add to 
the intrinsic graces or true influence of the sex. There 
are circumstances, however, which not only justify but 
ennoble publicity. There are situations in life which in 
a manner evoke from retirement those whose tastes are 
all for seclusion. If we look narrowly into the history 
of those with whose thoughts and feelings literature has 
made us most intimate, it will often appear that in them 
there was combined a degree of sensibility and reflection 
which absolutely, by the very law of the soul, must find 
a voice, and that it was the pressure of some outward ne- 
cessity, or the pain of some inward void that made that 
voice — (fain to pour itself out in low and earnest tones) 
— audible to all mankind. Some one has said that fame 
is love disguised. The points of a writer are usually 
those wherein he has been most alone ; and they owe 
their efl^ect to the vividness of expression which always 
results from conscious self-reliance. Literary vanity is a 
frequent subject of ridicule ; but many confound a thirst 
for recognition with a desire for praise. The former is 
a manly as well as a natural sentiment. Indeed there is 
something noble in the feeling which leads an ardent 
mind — looking in vain for a response to its oracles among 
the fellow creatures amid which its lot is cast — to appeal 
to a wider circle and send its messages abroad on the 
wings of the press, in the hope and faith that some heart 
will leap at the tidings and accept them as its own. I am 
persuaded that this truly human craving for sympathy 
and mtelhfjeni communion, is frequently mistaken for a 
weaker and more selfish appetite — the morbid love of 
fame. High-toned and sensitive beings invariably find 
their most native aliment in personal associations. They 



MISS BAKRETT.' 283 

are sufficiently aware that notoriety profanes, tliat tho 
nooks, and not the arena of life afford th^est refresh- 
ment. It is usually because poverty, ill-health, domestic 
trial, political tyranny, or misplaced affection, has deprived 
their hearts of a complete sanctuary, that they seek for 
usefulness and honour in the fields of the world. 

" My poems," says Miss Barrett, " while full of faults, 
as I go forward to my critics and confess, have my soul 
and life in them." We gather from other hints in the 
preface and especially from her poetry itself, that the 
life of which it is " the completest expression " attainable, 
has been one of unusual physical suffering, frequent 
loneliness and great study. As a natural result there is a 
remarkable predominance of thought and learning, even 
m the most inartificial overflow of her muse. Continu- 
ally we are met by allusions which indicate familiarity 
with classic lore. Her reveries are imbued with the spi- 
rit of antique models. The scholar is everywhere co- 
evident with the poet. In this respect Miss Barrett dif- 
fers from Mrs. Hemans and Mrs. Norton, in whose effu- 
sions enthusiasm gives the tone and colour. In each 
we perceive a sense of beauty and the pathos born 
of grief, but in the former these have a statuesque, and in 
the two latter a glowing development. The cheerfulness 
of Miss Barrett appears the fruit of philosophy and faith. 
She labours to reconcile herself to life through wisdom 
and her religious creed, and justifies tenderness by reason. 
This is a rather masculine process. The intellect is the 
main agent in realizing such an end. Yet discipline and 
isolation explain it readily; and the poetess doubtless speaks 
from consciousness when she declares the object of her 
art " to vindicate the necessary relation of genius to suf- 
fering and self-sacrifice." The defect of poetry thus con- 
ceived is the absence of spontaneous, artless and exube- 
rant feeling. There is a certain hardness and formality, 



284 THOUGHTSON THE POETS. 

a want of abandon of manner, a lack of gushing melody, 
such as takes the sympathies captive at once. We are 
conscious, indeed — painfully conscious — that strong feei- 
ng is here at work, but it is restrained, high-strung and 
profound. The human seems to find no natural repose, 
and strives, with a tragic vigour that excites admiration, 
to anticipate its spiritual destiny even while arrayed in 
mortal habiliments. Without subscribing to her theology 
we respect her piety. " Angelic patience " is the lesson 
she teaches with skill and eloquence. She would have 
the soul ever " nobler than its mood^ In her isolation 
and pain she communed with bards and sages, and found 
in their noble features, encouragement such as petty joys 
failed to give. She learned to delight in the ideals of hu- 
manity and gaze with awe and love on their 

Sublime significance of mouth. 

Dilated nostrils full of youth, 

And forehead royal with the truth. , 

In her view, 

Life treads on life and heart on heart — 
We press too close in church and mart. 
To keep a dream or grave apart. 

And from all this she turns to herself, and cherishes 
her individuality with a kind of holy pride. She seeks 
in the ardent cultivation of her intellectual resources a so- 
lace for the wounds and privations of life. She reflects 
intensely — traces the footsteps of heroes — endeavours to 
make the wisdom of the Past and the truths of God her 
own — and finds a high consolation in embodying the 
fruits of this experience in verse : 

In my large joy of sight and touchy 
Beyond what others count as such, 
■ I am content to suffer much. 

It would argue a strange insensibility not to recognise 



MISS BARRETT. 285 

a redeeming beauty in such an example. Miss Barrett 
is an honour to her sex, and no member thereof can fail 
to derive advantage from the spirit of her muse. It 
speaks words of " heroic cheer," and suggests thoughtful 
courage, sublime resignation, and exalted hope. At the 
same time, we cannot but feel her incompleteness. We 
incline to, and have faith in less systematic phases of 
woman's character. There is a native tenderness and 
grace, a child-like play of emotion, a simple utterance 
that brings more genial refreshment. We do not depre- 
cate Miss Barrett's lofty spirit and brave scholarship. 
They are alike honourable and efficient ; but sometimes 
they overlay nature and formalize emotion, making the 
pathway to the heart rather too long and coldly elegant 
for quick and entire sympathy. Yet this very blending 
of sense and sensibility, learning and love, reason and 
emotion, will do much and has already done much (as 
we can perceive by recent criticisms) to vindicate true 
sentiment and a genuine devotion to the beautiful. These 
glorious instincts are sternly rebuked every day under 
the name of enthusiasm, imagination and romance, as 
vain and absurd, by those who have intelligent but whol- 
ly practical minds. The sound and vigorous thought 
visible in Miss Barrett's poetry, and the self-dependence 
she inculcates, will command the respect and win the at- 
tention of a class who sneer at Tennyson as fantastic, and 
Keats as lack-a-daisical. They may thus come to rea- 
lize how the most kindling fancies and earnest love, ay, 
the very gentleness and idealism which they deem so 
false and weak, may co-exist with firm will, rare judg- 
ment, conscientiousness and truth, lending them both fire 
and grace, and educing from actual and inevitable ill, 
thoughts of comfort like these. 

Think ! the shadow on the dial 
For the nature most undone, 



286 THOUGHTS ON THE POETS. 

Marks the passing of the trial, 

Proves the presence of the sun ! 
Look ! look up in starry passion, 

To the throne above the spheres. 
Learn ! the spirit's gravitation 

Still must differ from the tear's. 
Hope ! with all the strength thou usest 

In embracing thy despair ; 
Love ! the earthly love thou lovest 

Shall return to thee more fair ; 
Work I make clear the forest tangling 

Of the wildest stranger land ; 
Trust ! the blessed deathly angels 

Whisper " Sabbath hours at hand." 

Miss Barrett's imagery is often Dantesque and Miltonic 
She evinces a certain distrust of her own originality 
but her tastes, both natural and acquired, obviously ally 
her to the more thoughtful and rhetorical poets. In the 
" Drama of Exile" are numerous passages, born of the 
same earnest contemplations which give such grave im- 
port to the language of the sightless bard of England, 
and the father of Italian song. The following are exam- 
ples to the purpose : 

.... As the pine. 
In Norland forests, drops its weight of sorrows 
By a night's growth, so growing towardsmy ends 
I drop thy counsel. 

****** 

Drawing together her large globes of eyes. 
The light of which is throbbing in and out. 
Around their continuity of gaze. 

Adam, as he wanders from Paradise, exclaims, 

How doth the wide and melancholy earth 
Gather her hills around us gray and ghast, 
And stare with blank significance of loss 
Right in our faces. 

Lucifer narrates an incident with singular vividness : 
Dost thou remember, Adam, when the curse 
Took us from Eden ? On a mountain peak 



MISS BARRETT. 287 

Half-sheathed in primal woods, and glittering 

In spasms of awful sunshine, at that hour 

A lion couched — part raised upon his paws, 

With his calm, massive face turned full on thine. 

And his mane listening. When the ended curse 

Left silence m the world, right suddenly 

He sprang up rampant, and stood straight and stiff. 

As if the new reality of death 

Were dashed against his eyes — and roared so fierce, 

(Such thick, carniverous passion in his throat 

Tearing a passage through the wrath and fear,) 

And roared so wild, and sm.ote from all the hills 

Such fast, keen echoes, crumbling down the oaks. 

To distant silence, that the forest beasts, 

One after one, did mutter a response 

In savage and in sorrowful complaint, 

Which trailed along the gorges. Then at once 

He fell back, and rolled crashing from the height. 

Hid by the dark-orbed pines." 

Lucifer's curse is a grand specimen of blank verse. As 
instances of terse and meaning language, take the two 
brief stanzas descriptive of Petrarch and Byron. The 
phrase " forlornly brave," applied to the latter, is very 
significant : 

Who from his brain-lit heart hath thrown 
A thousand thoughts beneath the sun, 
All perfumed with the name of one. 

***** 

And poor, proud Byron, sad as grave, 
And salt as life, forlornly brave, 
And grieving with the dart he drave. 

" The Rhyme of the Duchess of May" and " Bertha in 
the Lane" are by no means perfect, artistically speaking, 
but they have genuine pathos. " To Flush, my Dog" 
is apt as a piece of familiar verse. " Cowper's Grave" 
and " Sleep" have a low, sad music, at once real and 
affecting ; while many of the lines in '' Geraldine" ring 
nobly and sweet ; and in " The Crowned and Wedded," 



2S8 THOUGHTS ON THE POETS. 

" The Lady's Yes," and other minor pieces, the true 
dignity of her sex is admirably iUustrated. While thus 
giving Miss Barrett due credit for her versatile talent, 
we repeat that, in our view, the most interesting phase of 
her genius is her sincere recognition of that loyalty and 
tenderness — that " strong necessity of loving," and that 
divine reality of the heart, which are essential to all that 
is moving in poetry and all that is winsome in experience. 
Could we not trace the woman beneath attainment and 
reflection, our admiration might be excited, but our sym- 
pathies would not awaken. 

The most beautiful passages of the " Drama," to our 
thinking, are such as these : 

Jldam. God ! I render back 

Strong benediction and perpetual praise 
From mortal, feeble lips (as incense smoke 
Out of a little censer may fill heaven) 
That thou in striking my benumbed hands, 
And forcing them to drop all other boons 
Of beauty and dominion and delight, 
Hast left this well-beloved Eve — this life 
Within life, this best gift between their palms 
In gracious compensation ! 

***** 
my God ! 
In standing here between the glory and dark — 
The glory of thy wrath projected forth 
From Eden's wall ; the dark of our distress 
Which settles a step off in the drear world — 
Lift up to thee the hands from whence have fallen 

' Only Creation's sceptre, thanking thee 
That rather thou hast cast me out with her 
Than left me lorn of her in Paradise, 
With angel looks and angel songs around, 
To show the absence of her eyes and voice. 
And make society full desertness 
Without the uses of her comforting. 



MISS BARRETT. * 289 

.... Because with her I stand 
Upright as far as can be in the fall, 
And look away from heaven, which doth accuse me, 
And look up from the earth which doth convict me. 
Into her face ; and crown my discrowned brow. 

Out of her love ; and put the thoughts of her 
Around me for an Eden full of birds ; 
And lift her body up — thus — to my heart ; 
And with my lips upon her lips thus, thus — 
Do quicken and sublimate my mortal breath. 

Which cannot climb against the grave's steep sides. 
But overtops this grief. .... 

The essence of all beauty I call love, 
The attribute, the evidence and end, 
The consummation to the inward sense 
Of beauty apprehended from without 
I still call love 

.... Mother of the world, 
Take heart before His presence. Rise, aspire 
Unto the calms and magnanimities, 
The lofty uses and the noble ends, 
The sanctified devotion and full work, 
To which thou art elect forevermore. 
First woman, wife and mother ! 



17 



DRAKE. 



Fine social qualities are not so generally esteemed in 
this country as beyond the sea. Leisure is requisite for 
their exercise and enjoyment, and the vast majority of 
Americans are so busy, that a late traveller complains he 
could seldom find an opportunity to converse among 
them. The stranger doubtless used the phrase in its 
highest signification. Madame de Stael says, that the 
only legitimate subjects of conversation are those of uni- 
versal interest. There are few readier methods whereby 
the mind can be set free from egotistical annoyances and 
narrow cares, than by such high and liberal communion. 
Genius is not restricted to the use of mechanical imple- 
ments. The pen and the easel are not the only means 
by which gifted spirits impress us. The world is singu- 
larly unjust in its estimate of mental activity and useful- 
ness. " Why should I be always writing ?" asked Dr. 
Johnson, and who doubts now, that his talk was more 
efficient than his pen-craft ? The auditors of Coleridge, 
who were capable of appreciating his eloqu-ence, never 
complain that he produced so little ; and those whose 
privilege it was to listen to the fluent wisdom of Allston, 
felt most deeply that he was not born merely to transfer 
his conceptions to canvass. The social powers and sym- 
pathies are a constituent element of genius. Quickened 
and warmed by their affections, the poet and artist are 
unconscious of labour. It is the aimless and lonely 



DRAKE 



291 



efforts of the recluse, that bear the stamp of constraint. 
We can imagine what a work of love it was for the old 
masters to portray the beings to whom they were 
attached ; and these are their fairest trophies. Petrarch's 
heavy epic is neglected, but the sonnets which were the 
genial overflowings of his enamoured heart are immortal. 
Are not the fresh, strong traits of the old English drama, 
somewhat owing to the mutual labours of their authors ? 
Had not the pleasant gatherings at Wills' and Button's, 
considerable influence in producing the early British 
essayists? In truth, the social relations of genius form 
its best nursery and home. The attrition of mind with 
mind ; the frank and kindly interchange of feeling, and 
the cheering ministrations of friendship, throw an atmos- 
phere around the sensitive and ardent mind, in which its 
sweetest flowers bloom, and its best fruits mature. It 
was to please Lady Hesketh, that Cowper wrote the 
Task. There is no inspiration like love and friendship. 
The image of an endeared being is more encouraging to 
the child of song than any vision of ambition. " How 
hollow," exclaims Mrs. Hemans, in one of her letters, 
how hollow seems the voice of Fame to an orphan !" 
There is something, too, that frequently chills all 
glow of thought in the very idea of the public. Com- 
pare the spontaneous letter with the long considered arti- 
cle ; the versatile chat, full of individuality, with the 
monotonous dissertation so very scholar-like in style as 
to be attributed with equal reason, to fifty different wri- 
ters. There is a certain etiquette, which every gentle- 
man observes in a promiscuous assembly, that often 
J conceals his most interesting points of charac- 
ter, and identifies him \vith the multitude. A similar 
rule obtains in literature. To address the great mass 
with whom we have no intimate association, often seems 
a presumptuous or hopeless effort, and veneration for the 



292 THOTTGHTS ON THE POETS. 

select yet equally unknown few, will daunt or formalize 
endeavour. But it is not a wearisome task to charm 
minds with whose tastes we are intimate, to enliven 
hearts that are devoted to our welfare, to delight a circle 
with which we are allied by the ties of old acquaintance 
and warm regard. One of our poets has written : 

"Friends my soul with joy remembers, 
How like quivering flames they start. 
When I fan the living embers 
On the hearth-stone of my heart." 

Drake was an interesting example of the fostering in- 
fluence of happy associations. Without these it may be 
doubted if he would ever have become known to fame. 
His was one of those gentle natures that, from a divine 
instinct, concentrate their sources of happiness. He had 
no faith in that coarser philosophy which stakes life's 
dearest hopes on the broad arena of the world. Familiar 
with the true inheritors of literary glory, he never could 
mistake temporary reputation for enduring fame. His 
taste was too refined, and his standard of excellence too 
exalted, to permit him to feel any complacency in regard 
to his own effusions. To domestic and social pleasures 
he looked for enjoyment, and poetry was chiefly valued 
as imparting to these new grace and sprightliness. It 
was only by degrees that the inquisitive public discovered 
m Drake the author of those spirited local poems, which, 
under the signature of Croaker, imparted such attraction 
to the newspapers of the, day. Indeed, the truth was re- 
vealed, as the secrets of more lucrative trades often are, 
by the hazardous experiment of taking a parmer. It 
was soon discovered that the mysterious " Co." was no 
other than Halleck, and thence his friend's agency was 
easily inferred. This modest spirit was equally mani- 
fested by the poet during his last illness, when he exhib- 
ited perfect indiflerence as to the fate of his writings, and 



DRAKE. 293 

obviously held them m very light estimation. The Cul- 
prit Fay for a long period only existed in manuscript, 
and was not printed until several years after the author's 
death. Indeed, he infinitely preferred love to admira- 
tion. The society and affection of his friends, was too 
precious to be weighed in the balance with renown. His 
brief career was devoted to his profession and the care of 
his family ; and his recreations sought in literature and 
the companionship of a few kindred minds. When he 
returned from Louisiana in his twenty-sixth year, and 
found the disease on account of which he had made the 
voyage, wholly unalleviated, he became more than ever 
devoted, until his decease, which soon occurred, to these 
familiar and cherished resources. Drake's character 
must have been peculiarly endearing. His mental gifts 
alone would excite strong interest, but unallied, as they 
seem to have been, with ambition, how greatly their 
attraction was enhanced ! Talent, which is absolutely 
given to personal objects, claims no suffrages from the 
heart ; but the man of superior gifts, who voluntarily 
offers them at the altar of disinterested affection, cannot 
but win permanent and deep regard. Accordingly, the 
author of the Culprit Fay, young as he was, left a 
memory consecrated by the most tender regret. His 
cultivated taste gave an uncommon value to his literary 
opinions; his graceful humour threw a rare charm 
around the fireside, and his beautiful imagination 
hallowed the scenes of nature. Halleck's tribute is elo- 
quent from its very simplicity. Earnest indeed, must 
have been the grief which thus silenced a harp so often 
struck in unfson with that of the departed : 

" Where hearts, whose truth is proven, 
Like thine, are laid in earth, 
There should a wreath be woven 
To tell the world their worth. 

17* 



294 THOUGHTS ON THE POETS. 

" And I, who woke each morrow 
To clasp thy hand in mine, 
Who shared thy joy and sorrow. 
Whose weal and woe were thine. 

" It should be mine to braid it 
Around thy faded brow. 
But I've in vain essayed it, 
Andfefl I cannot now^^ 

The miscellaneous poems of Drake are few. They 
indicate power of language and strong feeling, but there 
is nothing particularly characteristic about them. Leon 
is a promising fragment, with some very happy descrip- 
tive touches. The change which grief occasions in 
beauty, is thus strikingly portrayed : 

" But he who casts his gaze upon her now. 
And reads the traces written on her brow, 
Had scarce believed her's was that form of light 
That beamed like fabled wonder on the sight ; 
Her raven hair hung down in loosened tress 
Before her wan cheek's pallid ghastliness ; 
And, thro' its thick locks, show'd the deadly white, 
hike marble glimpses of a tomb at night." 

The last phrase in the following lines gives an excel- 
lent idea of a kind of female loveliness almost peculiar 
to this country : 

" With so much graceful sweetness of address, 
And such a form of rounded slenderness." 

Of his minor poems, the " American Flag " is the 
best known. It is remarkably spirited, although some- 
what deformed by laboured epithets. The fourth stanza 
is perhaps the best and as glowing an effusion of patriot- 
ism as may be readily found in the same comnass : 

" Flag of the seas ! on ocean wave 
Thy stars shall glitter o'er the brave ; 
When death, careering on the gale,^ 
Sweeps darkly round the bellied sail. 



DRAKE. 295 

And frighted wares rush wildly back 
Before the broadside's reeling rack, 
Each dying wanderer of the sea 
Shall look at once to heaven and thee, 
And smile to see thy splendours fly 
In triumph o'er his closing eye." 

Let us turn to the most Original of Drake's writings, 
that on which his fame as a poet chiefly rests — " The 
Culprit Fay." 

Success in what may be called the poetry of Fancy, 
is comparatively rare. To describe what powerfully af- 
fects us requires command of language and imaginative 
power; but the chief requisite to such an end is intense 
feeling. Byron's peculiar energy lay almost wholly in 
this single attribute. His poetry is a reflection rather 
than a picture. It mirrors the struggles, the rapture, and 
the gloom, within his own heart ; verse is the cnicible in 
which his thoughts and emotions are fused and moulded 
into words. The poetry which springs from pure inven- 
tion, which has " airy nothing" for its material, and suc- 
ceeds in giving to this a " local habitation and a name," 
implies a creative faculty. This is true when the sub- 
ject illustrates actual life, when a congruous and effec- 
tive tale of human weal or sorrow is woven ; but it is 
emphatically true when the subject itself has no prece- 
dent in common experience. It has been said that to 
transfuse our O'^m life into what is feigned, is the preroga- 
tive of genius alone. It is certainly a very uncommon 
trmmph to succeed in forming a consistent narrative, with 
ideal personages for its characters, which shall powerfully 
interest the imagination, and at the same time satisfy the 
judgment. This was achieved by Drake in " The Culprit 
Fay." It borrows just enough reality from the natural 
world to make its fanciful hero seem an actual being. 
Its incidents are few, but their details are so felicitously 



296 THOUGHTS ON THE POETS, 

conceived that interest is not only awakened but sustained. 
The metre is admirably varied. There are two or three 
verbal crudities, but, as a whole, the taste and spirit ia 
which the design is wrought out is excellent. Of this 
class of poetry, some scenes in the Midsummer's Night's 
Dream, and the description of Queen Mab, by Mercutio, 
are exquisite specimens. The few who are fitted to ex- 
cel as fanciful poets, are apt to fail from the abstract and 
cold beauty of their imagery, or the elaborate plan of the 
argument. Shelley was a remarkable instance in point. 
His ^^ Revolt of Islam" abounds in pure fancy, but there 
is so little that appeals to primal sympathy, that most 
readers wonder at his genius rather than love its crea- 
tions. A sweet atmosphere borrowed from this breathing 
world, insensibly blends with the aerial machinery of 
*' The Culprit Fay." His sufferings and mortifications 
excite compassion, his adventures are followed with keen 
curiosity, and his success hailed with delight : and this, 
notwithstanding he is depicted as " a creature of the ele- 
ment." This ingenious and brilliant production originated 
in a discussion which, under one or another guise, is 
constantly renewed— the poetical capabilities of our young 
republic. It was argued by one that the absence of ro- 
mantic associations, and the time-hallowed shrines of the 
Past, rendered this country an inhospitable home for the 
muses. Another suggested that our history was too re- 
cent to furnish impressive themes of song.* Drake main- 
tained that genius is independent of time and place, and 
that the poet, from the rich stores of his own invention, 
could array the freshest scene with grace and solemnity. 
But this, urged his opponent, includes the necessity of 
ideal characters, and no strong human interest will at- 
tach to these. The poet was confident of the principle 
upon which his faith was based ; and he determined to 
convince his friends by experiment instead of reasoning. 



DRAKE. 297 

Centuries hence, perchance, some lover of " The Old 
American Writers" will speculate as ardently as Monk- 
barns himself, about the site of Sleepy Hollow. Then 
the Hudson will possess a classic interest, and the asso- 
ciations of genius and patriotism may furnish themes to 
illustrate its matchless scenery. " The Culprit Fay" will 
then be quoted with enth isiasm. Imagination is a per- 
verse faculty. Why should the ruins of a feudal castle 
add enchantment to a knoll of the Catskills ? Are not 
the Palisades more ancient than the aqueducts of the Ro- 
man Campagna 1 Can bloody tradition or superstitious 
legends really enhance the picturesque impression de- 
rived from West Point ? The heart forever asserts its 
claim. Primeval nature is often coldly grand in the view 
of one who loves and honours his race ; and the outward 
world is only brought near to his spirit when linked with 
human love and suffering, oj consecrated by heroism and 
faith. Yet, if there ever was a stream romantic in itself, 
superior from its own wild beauty, to all extraneous 
charms, it is the Hudson. Who ever sailed between its 
banks and scanned its jutting headlands, — the perpendicu- 
lar cliffs, — the meadows over which alternate sunshine and 
cloud, — umbrageous woods, masses of grey rock, dark ce- 
dar groves, bright grain-fields, tasteful cottages, and fairy- 
like sails ; who, after thus feasting both sense and soul, 
through a summer day, has, from a secluded nook of 
those beautiful shores, watched the moon rise and tip the 
crystal ripples with light, and not echoed the appeal of 
the bard ? 

" Tell me — where'er thy silver bark be steering, 
By bright Italian or soft Persian lands. 
Or o'er those island-studded seas careering, 

Whose pearl-charged waves dissolve on coral strands : 
Tell if thou visitest, thou heavenly rover, 
A lovelier scene than this the wide world over ?"* 

* Hoflfinan's " Moonlight on the Hudson." 



2li8 THOUGHTS ON THE POETS. 

It was wtiere 

" The moon looks down on old Crow Nest, 
And mellows the shade on his craggy breast," 

that Drake laid the scene of his poem. The story is of 
simple construction. The fairies are called together, at 
this chosen hour, not to join in dance or revel, but to sit 
in judgment on one of their number who has broken his 
vestal vow : 

"He has loved an earthly maid, 
And left for her his woodland shade ; 
He has lain upon her lip of dew, 
And sunn'd him in her eye of blue, 
Fann'd her cheek with his wing of air, 
Play'd in the ringlets of her hair, 
And nestling on her snowy breast. 
Forgot the lily-king's behest." 

His sentence is thus pronounced : 

" Thou shalt seek the beach of sand. 
Where the water bounds the elfin land ; 
Thou shalt watch the oozy brine 
Till I he sturgeon leaps in the bright moonshine, 
Then dart the glittering arch below. 
And catch a drop from his silver bow." 
***** 

" If the spray-bead gem be won. 

The stain of thy wing is wash'd away. 

But another errand must be done 
Ere thy crime be lost for aye ; 

Thy flame-wood lamp is quench'd and dark. 

Thou must re-illume its spark ; 

Mount thy steed, and spur him high 

To the heaven's blue canopy ; 

And when thou see'st a shooting star. 

Follow it fast and follow it far — 

The last faint spark of its burning train 

Shall light thy elfin lamp again." 

Evil sprites, both of the air and water, oppose the Fay 
in his mission of penance. He is sadly ^baffled and 



DRAKE. 299 

tempted, but at length conquers all difficulties, and his 
triumphant return is hailed with " dance and song, and 
lute and lyre." 

It is in the imagery of the poem that Drake's genius is 
pre-eminent. What, for instance, can be more ingenious 
that the ordeals prescribed had any " spot or taint " in his 
ladye-love deepened the Fay's sacrilege : 
"Tied to the hornet's shady wings; 

Toss'd on the pricks of nettles' stings, 

Or seven long ages doom'd to dwell 

With the lazy worm in the walnut shell ; 

Or every night to writhe and bleed 

Beneath the tread of the centipede ; 

Or bound in a cobweb dungeon dim, 

Your jailer a spider huge and grim. 

Amid the carrion bodies lie 

Of the worm, and the bug, and the murder'd fly." 

Most appropriate tortures, these, for a fairy inquisition ! 
Even without the metrical accompaniment, how daintily 
conceived are all the appointments of the fairies ! Their 
lanterns were owlet's eyes. Some of them repose in 
cobweb hammocks, swinging, perhaps, on tufted spears of 
grass, and rocked by the zephyrs of a midsummer night. 
Others make -their beds of lichen-green, pillowed by the 
breast-plumes of the humming-bird. A few, whose taste 
for upholstery is quite magnificent, fi'nd a couch in the 
purple shade of the four-o'clock, or the little niches of 
rock lined with dazzling mica. The table of these min- 
nikin epicureans is a mushroom, whose velvet surface 
and quaker hue make it a very respectable festal board at 
which to drink dew from buttercups. The king's throne is 
of sassafras and spice-wood, with tortoise-shellpillars, and 
crimson tulip-leaves for drapery. But the quaint shifts 
and beautiful outfit of the Culprit himself, comprise the 
most delectable imagery of the poem. He is worn out 
with fatigue and chagrin at the very commencement of 



300 THOUGHTS ON THE POETS. 

his journey, and therefore makes captive of a spotted 
toad, by way of a steed. Having bridled her with silk- 
weed twist, his progress is rapid by dint of lashing her 
sides with an osier thong. Arrived at the beach, he 
launches fearlessly upon the tide, for among his other 
accomplishments, the Fay is a graceful swimmer ; but his 
tender limbs are so bruised by leeches, starfish, and other 
watery enemies, that he is soon driven back. 

The materia medica of Fairy-land is always accessi- 
ble ; and cobweb lint, and balsam dew of sorrel and hen- 
bane, speedily relieve the little penitent's wounds. Hav- 
ing refreshed himself with the juice of the calamus root, 
he returns to the shore, and selects a neatly-shaped mus- 
cle shell, brightly painted without, and tinged with pearl 
within. Nature seemed to have formed it expressly for 
a fairy boat. Having notched the stern, and gathered a 
colen bell to bale with, he sculls into the midst of the river, 
laughing at his old foes as they grin and chatter around 
his way. There, in the sweet moon-light, he sits until 
a sturgeon comes by, and leaps, all glistening, into the 
silvery atmosphere ; then balancing his delicate frame 
upon one foot, like a Lilliputian Mercury, he lifts the 
flowery cup, and catches the one sparkling drop that is 
to wash the stain from his wing. Gay is his return 
voyage. Sweet nymphs clasp the boat's side with their 
tiny hands, and cheerily urge it onward. His next en- 
terprise is of a more knightly species ; and he proceeds 
to array himself accordingly, as becomes a fairy cavalier. 
His acorn helmet is plumed with thistle-down, a bee's 
nest forms his corselet, and his cloak is of butterflies* 
wings. With a lady-bug's shell for a shield, and wasp- 
sting lance, spurs of cockle-seed, a bow made of vine- 
twig, strung with maize-silk, and well supplied with net- 
tle-shafts, he mounts his fire-fly Bucephalus, and waving 
his blade of blue grass, speeds upward to catch a " glim- 



D K A K E . 301 

meringf spark " from some flying meteor. Again the 
.spirits of evil are let loose upon him, and the upper ele- 
ments are not more friendly than those below. Fays 
are as hardly beset, it seems, as we of coarser clay, by 
temptations in a feminine shape. A sylphid queen of 
the skies, " the loveliest of the forms of light," enchants 
the wanderer by her beauty and kindness. But though 
she played very archly with the butterfly cloak, and 
handled the tassel of his blade while he revealed to her 
pitying ear " the dangers he had passed," the memory 
of his first love and the object of pilgrimage kept his 
heart free. Escorted with great honour by the sylph's 
lovely train, his career is resumed, and his flame-wood 
lamp at length re-kindled, and before the " sentry elf" 
proclaims " a streak in the eastern sky," the Culprit has 
been welcomed to all his original glory. 

It will be observed that the materials — the costume, as 
it were — of this fairy tale, are of native and familiar ori- 
gin. The effect is certainly quite as felicitous as that 
of many similar productions where the countless flowers 
and rich legends of the East, furnish the poet with an ex- 
haustless mine of pleasing images. It has been remarked 
that the dolphin and flying-fish are the only poetical 
members of the finny tribes ; but who, after reading the 
Culprit Fay, will ever hear the plash of a sturgeon in the 
moonlit water, without recalling the genius of Drake ? 
Indeed, the poem which we have thus cursorily examined 
is one of those happy inventions of fancy, superinduced, 
upon fact, which afford unalloyed delight. There are 
various tastes as regard the style and spirit of different 
bards ; but no one, having the slightest perception, will 
fail to realize at once that the Culprit Fay is a genuine 
poem. This is, perhaps, the highest of praise. The 
mass of versified compositions are not strictly poems. 
Here and there only the purely ideal is apparent. A 



302 THOUGHTS ON THE POETS. 

series of* poetical fragments are linked by rhymes to other 
and larger portions of common-place and prosaic ideas. 
It is with the former as with moon-beams falling 
through dense foliage — they only chequer our path with 
light. " Poetry," says Campbell, " should come to us 
in masses of ore, that require little sifting." The poem 
before us obeys this important rule. It is " of imagina- 
tion all compact." It takes us completely away from the 
dull level of ordinary associations. As the portico of 
some beautiful temple, through it we are introduced into 
a scene of calm delight, where Fancy asserts her joyous 
supremacy, and woos us to forgetfulness of all outward 
evil, and to fresh recognition of the lovely in Nature and 
the graceful and gifted in humanity. 



BRYANT. 



It has been well observed by an English critic that 
Poetry is not a branch of authorship. The vain en- 
deavour to pervert its divine and spontaneous agency into 
a literary craft, is the great secret of its recent decline. 
Poetry is the overflowing of the soul. It is the record of 
what is best in the world. No product of the human 
mind is more disinterested. Hence comparatively few 
keep the poetic element alive beyond the period of early 
youth. All that is sfenuine in the art springs from vivid 
experience, and life seldom retains any novel aspect to 
those who have long mingled in its scenes and staked 
upon its chances. A celebrated artist of our day, when 
asked the process by which his delineations were ren- 
dered so effective, replied, that he drew them altogether 
from memory. Natural objects were portrayed not as 
they impressed him at the moment, but according to the 
lively and feeling phases in which they struck his senses 
in boyhood. For this reason it has been truly observed, 
that remembrance makes the poet, and that emotions re- 
collected in tranquillity form the true source of inspira- 
tion. A species of literature depending upon conditions 
so delicate is obviously not to be successfully cultivated 
by those who hold it in no reverence. The great dis- 
tinction between verse-writers and poets is that the former 
seek and the latter receive ; the one attempt to command, 
the other meekly obey the higher impulses of their being. 



304 THOUGHTS ON THE POETS. 

The first thought which suggests itself in regard to Bry- 
ant, is his respect for the art which he has so nobly illus- 
trated. This is not less commendable than rare. Such 
an impatient spirit of utility prevails in our country, that 
even men of ideal pursuits are often infected by it. It is 
a leading article in the Yankee creed, to turn every en- 
dowment to account : and although a poet is generally 
left " to chew the cud of sweet and bitter fancies," as he 
lists, occasions are not infrequent when even his services 
are available. Caliban's lowly toil will not supply all 
needs. The more " gentle spriting " of Ariel is some- 
times desired. To subserve the objects of party, to 
acquire a reputation upon which office may be sought, 
and to gratify personal ambition, the American poet is. 
often tempted to sacrifice his true fame and the dignity of 
Art to the demands of Occasion. To this weakness Bry- 
ant has been almost invariably superior. He has pre- 
served the elevation which he so early acquired. He has 
been loyal to the Muses. At their shrine his ministry 
seems ever free and sacred, wholly apart from the ordi- 
nary associations of life. With a pure heart and a lofty 
purpose, has he hymned the glory of Nature and the praise 
of Freedom. To this we cannot but, in a great degree, 
ascribe the serene beauty of his verse. The mists of 
worldly motives dim the clearest vision, and the sweetest 
voice falters amid the strife of passion. As the patriarch 
went forth alone to muse at eventide, the reveries of 
genius have been to Bryant, holy and private seasons. 
They are as unstained by the passing clouds of this 
troubled existence, as the skies of his own " Prairies " by 
village smoke. 

Thus it should be, indeed, with all poets ; but we deem 
it singularly happy when it is so with our own. The ten- 
dency of all action and feeling with us, is so much the 
reverse of poetical, that only the high, sustained and con- 



BRYANT. 305 

sistent development of the imagination, would command 
attention or exert influence. The poet in this republic, 
does not address ignorance. In truth, the great obstacle 
with which he has to deal, so to speak, is intelligence. 
It is not the love of gain and physical comfort alone, that 
deadens the finer perceptions of our people. Among the 
highly educated there is less real enjoyment of poetry 
than is discovered by those to whom reading is almost a 
solitary luxury. No conformity to fashion or affectation 
of taste influence the latter. They seek the world of 
imagination and sentiment, with the greater delight from 
the limited satisfaction realized in their actual lot. To 
them Poetry is a great teacher of self-respect. It unfolds 
to them emotions familiar to their own bosoms. It cele- 
brates scenes of beauty amid which they also are free to 
wander. It vindicates capacities and a destiny of which 
they partake. Intimations like these are seldom found in 
their experience, and for this reason, — cherished and hal- 
lowed associations endear an art which consoles while it 
brings innocent pleasure to their hearts. It is, therefore 
in what is termed society, that the greatest barriers to 
poetic sympathy exist, and it is precisely here that it is 
most desirable, the bard should be heard. But the idea' 
of culture with this class lies almost exclusively in 
knowledge. They aim at understanding every question, 
are pertinacious on the score of opinion, and would blush 
to be thought unacquainted with a hundred subjects with 
which they have not a particle of sympathy. The wis- 
dom of loving, even without comprehending; the revela- 
tions obtained only through feeling ; the veneration that 
awes curiosity by exalted sentiment — all this is to them 
unknown. Life never seems miraculous to their minds, 
Nature wears a monotonous aspect, and routine gradually 
congeals their sensibilities. To invade this vegetative 
existence is the poet's vocation. Hazlitt says all that is 
18- 



806 THOUGHTS ON THE POETS. 

worth remembering- in life is the poetry of it. If so, 
habits wholly prosaic are as alien to wisdom as to enjoy- 
ment ; and the elevated manner in which Bryant has uni- 
formly presented the claims of poetry, the tranquil 
eloquence with which his ch.iste and serious muse ap- 
peals to the heart, deserve the most grateful recognition. 
There is something accordant with the genius of our / 
country, in the mingled clearness and depth of his poetry. 
The glow of unbridled passion seems peculiarly to be* 
long to southern lands where despotism blights personal 
effort, and makes the ardent pursuit of pleasure almost a 
necessity. The ancient communities of northern lati- 
tudes have rich literatures from whence to draw materials 
for their verse. But here, where Nature is so magnifi- 
cent, and civil institutions so fresh, where the experiment 
of Republicanism is going on, and each individual must 
think if he do not work, Poetry, to illustrate the age and 
reach its sympathies, should be thoughtful and vigorous. 
It should minister to no weak sentiment, but foster 
high, manly and serious views. It should identify 
itself with the domestic affections, and tend to solemnize 
rather than merely adorn existence. Such are the 
natural echoes of American life, and they characterize 
the poetry of Bryant. 

Bryant's love of Nature gives the prevailing spirit to 
his poetry. The feeling with him seems quite instinc- 
tive. It is not sustained by a metaphysical theory as in 
the case of Wordsworth, while it is imbued with more 
depth of pathos than is often discernible in Thomson. 
The feeling with which he looks upon the wonders of 
Creation is remarkably appropriate to the scenery of the 
New World. His poems convey, to an extraordinary 
degree, the actual impression which is awakened by our 
lakes, mountains, and forests. There is in the landscape 
of every country something characteristic and peculiar 



BRYANT, 



307 



The individual olDJects may be the same, but their com- 
bination is widely different. The lucent atmosphere of 
Switzerland, the grouping of her mountains, the effect of 
glacier and waterfall, of peaks clad in eternal snow, im- 
pending over valleys whose emerald herbage and peace- 
ful flocks realize our sweetest dreams of primeval life — 
all strike the eye and affect the mind in a manner some- 
what different from similar scenes in other lands. The 
long, pencilled clouds of an Italian sunset — glowing 
above plains covered with brightly-tinted vegetation, 
seem altogether more placid and luxuriant than the gor- 
geous masses of golden vapour, towering in our western 
sky at the close of an autumnal day. These and innu- 
merable other minute features are not only perceived but 
intimately felt by the genuine poet. We esteem it one 
of Bryant's great merits that he has not only faithfully 
pictured the beauties, but caught the very spirit of our 
scenery. His best poems have an anthem-like cadence, 
which accords with the vast scenes they celebrate. He 
approaches the mighty forest, whose shadowy haunts only 
the footsteps of the Indian has penetrated, deeply con- 
scious of its virgin grandeur. His harp is strung in 
harmony with the wild moan of the ancient boughs. 
Every moss-covered trunk breathes to him of the myste- 
ries of Time, and each wild flower which lifts its pale 
buds above the brown and withered leaves, whispers some 
thought of gentleness. We feel, when musing with him 
amid the solitary woods, as if blessed with a companion 
peculiarly fitted to interpret their teachings ; and while 
intent in our retirement upon his page, we are sensible 
as it were, of the presence of those sylvan monarchs that 
crown the hill-tops and grace the valleys of our native 
land. No English park formalised by the hand of Art, 
no legendary spot like the pine grove of Ravenna, sur- 
rounds us. It is not the gloomy German forest with its 



308 THOUGHTS ON THE POETS. 

phantoms and banditti, but one of those primal, dense 
woodlands of America, where the oak spreads its enor- 
mous branches, and the frost-kindled leaves of the maple, 
glow like flame in the sunshine ; where the tap of the 
woodpecker and the whirring of the partridge alone 
break the silence that broods, like the spirit of prayer, 
amid the interminable aisles of the verdant sanctuary. 
Any reader of Bryant, on the other side of the ocean, 
gifted with a small degree of sensibility and imagination, 
may derive from his poems the very awe and delight 
with which the first view of one of our majestic forests 
would strike his mind. 

The kind of interest with which Bryant regards Na- 
ture is common to the majority of minds in which a love 
of beauty is blended with reverence. This in some mea- 
sure accounts for his popularity. Many readers, even of 
poetical taste, are repelled by the very vehemence and 
intensity of Byron. They cannot abandon themselves so 
utterly to the influences of the outward world, as to feel 
the waves bound beneath them " like a steed that knows 
his rider;" nor will their enthusiasm so far annihilate 
consciousness as to make them " a portion of the tem- 
pest." Another order of imaginative spirits do not greatly 
affect the author of the Excursion from the frequent bald- 
ness of his conceptions ; and not a few are unable to see 
the Universe through the spectacles of his philosophy. 
To such individuals the tranquil delight with which the 
American poet expatiates upon the beauties of Creation is 
perfectly genial. There is no mystical lore in the tributes 
of his muse. All is clear, earnest and thoughtful. In- 
deed, the same difference that exists between true-hearted, 
natural affection, and the metaphysical love of the Pla- 
tonists, may be traced between the manly and sincere 
lays of Bryant and the vague and artificial effusions of 
transcendental bards. The former realize the definition 



B K Y A N T . 309 

of a poet which describes him as superior to the muhitude 
only in degree, not in kind. He is the priest of a uni- 
versal religion ; and clothes in appropriate and harmo- 
nious language sentiments, warmly felt and cherished. 
He requires no interpreter. There is nothing eccentric 
in his vision. Like all human beings the burden of daily 
toil sometimes weighs heavily on his soul ; the noisy ac- 
tivity of common life becomes hopeless ; scenes of inhu- 
manity, error, and suffering grow oppressive, or more 
personal causes of despondency make " the grasshopper 
a burden." Then he turns to the quietude and beauty 
of Nature for refreshment. There he loves to read the 
fresh tokens of creative beneficence. The scented air of 
the meadows cools his fevered brow. The umbrageous 
foliage sways benignly around him. Vast prospects ex- 
pand his thoughts beyond the narrow circle of worldly 
anxieties. The limpid stream upon whose banks he 
wandered in childhood, reflects each fleecy cloud and 
soothes his heart as the emblem of eternal peace. Thus 
faith is revived ; the soul acquires renewed vitality, and 
the spirit of love is kindled again at the altar of God. 
Such views of Nature are perfectly accordant with the 
better impulses of the heart. There is nothing in them 
strained, unintelligible or morbid. They are more or less 
famihar to all, and are as healthful overflowings of our 
nature as the prayer of repentance or the song of thanks- 
giving. They distinguish the poetry of Bryant and 
form one of its dominant charms. Let us quote a few 
illustrations : 

" I've tried the world — it wears no more 
The colouring of romance it wore. 
Yet well has Nature kept the truth 
She promised to my ear iest youth. 
The radiant beauty shed abroad 
On all the glorious works of God, 
Shows frankly to my sobered eye 
Each charm it wore in days gone by. 



THOUGHTS ON THE POETS. 

" To him who, in the love of Nature, holds 
Communion with her visible forms, she speaks 
A various language ; for his gayer hours 
She has a voice of gladness, and a smile 
And eloquence of beauty, and she glides 
Into his darker musings with a mild 
And healing sympathy, that steals away 
Their sharpness, ere he is aware. 

* * * * 

.... Then the chant 
Of birds, and chime of brooks, and soft caress 
Of the fresh sylvan air, made me forget 
The thoughts that broke my peace, and I began 
To gather simples by the fountain's brink, 
And lose myself in day-dreams. While I stood 
In Nature's loneliness, I was with one 
With whom I daily grew familiar, one 
Who never had a frown for me, whose voice 
Never rebuked me for the hours I stole 
From cares I loved not, but of which the world 
Deems highest, to converse with her ; when shrieked 
The bleak November winds, and smote the woods. 
And the brown fields were herbless, and the shades 
That met above the merry rivulet. 
Were spoiled, I sought, I loved them still — they seemed 
Like old companions in adversity. 

* * * * * 

" Stranger, if thou hast learned a truth which needs 
No school of long experience, that the world 
Is full of guilt and misery, and hast seen 
Enough of all its sorrows, crimes and cares. 
To tire thee of it, enter this wild v/ood.. 
And view the haunts of Nature. The calm shade 
Shall bring a kindred calm, and the sweet breeze. 
That makes the green leaves dance, shall waft a balm 
To thy sick heart. Thou wilt find nothing here. 
Of all that pained thee in the haunts of men. 
And made thee loathe thy life." 

Nothing quickens the perceptions like genuine love. 
From the humblest professional attachment to the most 
chivalric devotion, what keenness of observation is born 
under the influence of that feeling which drives away the 



BRYANT. Sll 

obscuring clouds of selfishness, as the sun consumes the 
vapour of the morning I I never knew what varied asso- 
ciations could environ a shell-fish, until I heard an old 
oj'-ster-merchant discourse of its qualities ; and a lands- 
man can have no conception of the fondness a ship may 
inspire, before he listens, on a moonlight night, amid the 
lonely sea, to the details of her build and workings, un- 
folded by a complacent tar. Mere instinct or habit will 
thus make the rude and illiterate see with better eyes 
than their fellows. When a human object commands 
such interest, how quickly does affection detect every 
change of mood and incipient want — reading the coun- 
tenance as if it were the very chart of destiny ! And 
it is so with the lover of Nature, By virtue of his 
love comes the vision, if not " the faculty divine." 
Objects and similitudes seen heedlessly by others, or 
passed unnoticed, are stamped upon his memory. 
Bryant is a graphic poet, in the best sense of the word. 
He has little of the excessive detail of Street, or the 
homely exactitude of Crabbe. His touches, like his 
themes, are usually on a grander scale, yet the minute is 
by no means neglected. It is his peculiar merit to deal 
with it wisely. Enough is suggested to convey a strong 
impression, and often by the introduction of a single cir- 
cumstance, the mind is instantly enabled to complete the 
picture. It is difficult to select examples of his power in 
this regard. The following scene from " A Winter 
Piece" is as picturesque as it is true to fact : 

.... Come, when the rains 
, Have glazed the snow, and clothed the trees with ice ; 

While the slant sun of February pours 
Into the bowers, a flood of light. Approach j 
The incrusted surface shall upbear thy steps, 
And the broad, arching portal^ of the grove 
Welcome thy entering. Look ! the massy trunks 
Are cased in the pure crystal ; each light spray, 
Nodding and tinkling in the breath of heaven, 
Is studded with its trembling water-drops. 



312 THOUGHTS ON THE POETS. 

That stream with rainbow radiance as they move. 
But round the parent stem, the lung, low boughs 
Bend, in a glittering ring, and arbours hide 
The glassy floor. 

. . . Raise thine eye, — 
Thou sees't no cavern roof, no palace vault ; 
There the blue sky, and the white drifting cloud 
Look in. Again the wildered fancy dreams 
Of spouting fountains frozen as they rose, 
And fixed with all their branching jets in air, 
And all their sluices sealed. All, all is light ; 
Light without shade. But all shall pass away 
With the next sun. From numberless vast trunks. 
Loosened, the cracking ice shall make a sound 
Like the far roar of rivers, and the eve 
Shall close o'er the brown woods as it was wont." 

As instances of the felicitous blending of genera! 
with particular description, take the following : 

*• And from beneath the leaves that kept them dry. 
Flew many a glittering insect here and there. 

And darted up and down the butterfly, 
That seemed a living blossom of the air. 

The flocks came scattering from the thicket, where 
Strolled groups of damsels, frolicsome and fair ; 

The farmer swung the scythe, or turned the hay, 

Arid Hwixt the heavy swaths the children were at play. 

***** 

.... These shades 

Are still the abode of gladness; the thick roof 

Of green and stirring branches is alive 

And musical with birds, that siiig and sport 

In wantonness and spirit ; while below 

The squii rel with raised paws and form erect 

Chirps merrily. . , . 

* I * * * * 

The massy rocks themselves 
And the old and ponderous trunks of prostrate trees 
That lead from knoll to knoll a causeway rude. 
Or bridge the sunken brook, and their dark roots, 
With all their earth upon them, twisting high, 
Breathe fixed tranquillity. The rivulet 
Sends forth glad sounds, and tripping o'er its bed. 



BRYANT. 



313 



Of pebbly sand, or leaping down the rocks. 
Seems with continuous laughter to rejoice 
In its own being. Softly tread the marge, 
Lest from its midway perch thou scare the wren 
That dips her bill in water." 

Bryant is eminently a contemplative poet. His 
thoughts are not less impressive than his imagery. Sen- 
timent, except that which springs from benevolence and 
veneration, seldom lends a glow to his pages. Indeed, 
there is a remarkable absence of those spontaneous 
bursts of tenderness and passion, which constitute the 
very essence of a large portion of modern verse. He 
has none of the spirit of Campbell, or the narrative 
sprightliness of Scott. The few humorous attempts he 
has published are unworthy of his genius. Love is 
merely recognized in his poems ; it rarely forms the sta- 
ple of any composition. His strength obviously consists 
in description and philosophy. It is one advantage of 
this species of poetry that it survives youth, and is by 
nature, progressive. Bryant's recent poems are fully 
equal if not superior to any he has written. With his 
inimitable pictures there is ever blended high speculation, 
or a reflective strain of moral comment. Some elevat- 
ing inference or cheering truth is elicited from every 
scene consecrated by his muse. A noble simplicity ot 
language, combined with these traits, often leads to the 
most genuine sublimity of expression. Some of his 
lines are unsurpassed in this respect. They so quietly 
unfold a great thought or magnificent image, that we are 
often taken by surprise. What a striking sense of mor- 
tality is afforded by the idea,— 

" The oak 
Shall send his roots abroad and pierce thy mould." 

How grand the figure which represents the evening" 
air, as 

18* 



314 THOUGHTS ON THE POETS. 

' God's blessing breathed upon the fainting earth." 

In the same poem he compares 

'• The gentle souls that passed away," 

to the twilight breezes sweeping over a churchyard,— 

" Sent forth from heaven among the sons of men," 
And gone into the boundless heaven again." 

And what can be more suggestive of the power of the 
winds, than the figure by which they are said to 
*' Scoop the ocean to its briny springs" ? — 

He would make us feel the hoary age of the mossy 
and gigantic forest- trees, and not only alludes to their 
annual decay and renewal, but significantly adds, 

*' The century-living crow 
Whose birth was in their tops, grew old and died." 

To those who have never seen a Prairie, how vividly 
does one spread before the imagination, in the very open- 
ing of the poem devoted to those " verdant wastes ;" 

*' There are the gardens of the desert, these 

The unshorn fields boundless and beautiful, 

For which the speech of England has no name — 

The Prairies — I behold them for the first, 

And my heart swells, while the dilated sight 

Takes in the encircling vastness. So they stretch 

In airy undulations far away, 

As if the ocean in his gentlest swell, 

Stood still with all his rounded billows fixed 

And motionless for ever. Motionless ? 

No — they are all unchained again. The clouds 

Sweep over with their shadows, and beneath. 

The surface rolls and fluctuates to the eye ; 

Dark hollows seem to glide along and chase 

The sunny ridges." 

He speaks of the beaver as rearing " his little Venice ;" 
and the lonely place where the murdered traveller met his 
doom, is indicated in a brief stanza : 



I 



BRYANT. 315 

The red-bird warbled as he wrought 

His hanging nest o'erhead, 
And fearless near the fatal spot 

Her young the partridge led,'* 

The unconscious flight of time, as years advance, is 
finely illustrated thus : 

*' Slow pass our days 
In childhood, and the hours of light are long 
Betwixt the morn and eve ; with swifter lapse 
They glide in manhood, and in age they fly ; 
Till days and seasons flit before the mind 
As fit the snow flakes in a winter's storm. 
Seen rather than distinguished." 

We are made to realize the antiquity of Freedom by a 
single expression : , 



thou didst tread 



The earliest furrows on the mountain side. 
Soft with the deluge" 

The progress of Science is admirably hinted in a line 
of " The Ages," when man is said to 

" Unwind the eternal dances of the sky." 

Instances like these might be multiplied at pleasure, to 
illustrate the efficacy of simple diction, and to prove that 
the elements of real poetry consist in truly grand ideas, 
uttered without affectation, and in a reverent and earnest 
spirit. 

A beautiful calm like that which rests on the noble 
works of the sculptor, breathes from the harp of Bryant. 
He traces a natural phenomenon, or writes in melodious 
numbers, the history of some familiar scene, and then, 
with almost prophetic emphasis, utters to the charmed 
ear a high lesson or sublime truth. In that pensive hymn 
in which he contrasts Man's transitory being, with Na- 
ture's perennial life, solemn and affecting as are the im- 



316 



THOUGHTS ON THE POETS 



ages, they but serve to deepen the simple monition at the 
close: 

" So live, that when thy summons comes, to join 
The innumerable caravan that moves 
To that mysterious realm, where each shall take 
His chamber in the silent halls of death. 
Thou go not like the quarry slave at ni'^^ht, 
Scourged to his dungeon, but sustained and soothed 
By an unfaltering truit, approach thy grave. 
Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch 
About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams." 

In " The Fountain," after a descriptive sketch that 
brings its limpid flow and its flowery banks almost pal- 
pably before us, how exquisite is the chronicle that fol- 
lows ! Guided by the poet, we behold that gushing 
stream, ages past, in the solitude of the old woods, when 
canopied by the hickory and plane, the humming-bird 
playing amid its spray, and visited only by the wolf, 
who comes to " lap its waters," the deer who leaves her 
" delicate foot-print," on its marge, and the " slow-paced 
bear that stopt and drank, and leaped across." Then the 
savage war-cry drowns its murmur, and the wounded 
foeman creeps slowly to its brink to " slake his death- 
thirst." Ere long a hunter's lodge is built " with poles 
and boughs, beside the crystal well," and at length the 
lonely place is surrounded with the tokens of civilization : 

" White cottages were seen 
With rose trees at the windows ; barns from which 
Swelled loud and shrill the cry of chanticleer, 
Pastures where rolled and neighed the lordly horse, 
And white flocks browsed and bleated. 
****** 

. . . Blue-eyed girls 
Brought pails, and dipped them in thy crystal pool. 
And children, ruddy cheeked and flaxen haired. 
Gathered the glistening cowslip from its edge." 



BRYANT. 337 

Thus the minstrel, even 

" Frnm the gushing of a simple fount, 
Has reasoned to the mighty universe." 

What a just respect for humanity, recognizing its sa- 
cred claims with poetic emphasis, breathes in the " Disin- 
terred Warrior:" 

" Gather him to his grave again, 

And solemnly and softly lay, 
Beneath the verdure of the plain, 

The warrior's scattered bones away, 
Pay the deep homage taught of old. 

The homage of m.arv's heart to death, 
JVor dare to trifle with the mould 

Once hallowed by the Almighty's breath.''^ 

The very rhythm of the stanzas " to a Waterfowl," 
gives the impression of its flight. Like the bird's sweep- 
ing wing, they float with a calm and majestic cadence to 
the ear. We see that solitary wanderer of the " cold 
thin atmosphere ;" we watch, almost with awe, its serene 
course, until " the abyss of heaven has swallowed up its 
form," and then gratefully echo the bard's consoling in- 
ference : 

" He who from zone to zone. 

Guides through the trackless air thy certain flight. 

In the long way that I must tread alone, 

Will guide my steps aright." 

But it is unnecessary to cite from pages so familiar ; 
or we might allude to the grand description of Freedom, 
and the beautiful " Hymn to Death," as among the noblest 
specimens of modern verse. The great principle of Bry- 
ant's faith is that 

" Eternal love doth keep 
In his complacent arms, the earth, the air, the deep." 

To set forth in strains the most attractive and lofty, this 
glorious sentiment, is the constant aim of his poetry. 



318 THOUGHTS ON THE POETS. 

Gifted must be the man who is loyal to so high a voca- 
tion. From the din of outward activity, the vain turmoil 
of mechanical life, it is delightful and ennobling to turn to 
a true poet, — one who scatters flowers along our path, and 
lifts our gaze to the stars, — breaking, by a word, the spell of 
blind custom, so that we recognize once more the original 
glory of the Universe, and hear again the latent music of 
our own souls. This high service has Bryant fulfilled. 
It will identify his memory with the loveliest scenes of 
his native land, and endear it to her children forever. 



PUBLISHED BY C. S. FRANCIS AND CO., NEW-YORK. 



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PUBLISHED BY C. S. FRANCIS AND CO., NEW-YOEK. 

THE THOUSAND AND ONE NIGHTS; OR, 

THE ARABIAN NIGHTS' ENTERTAINMENTS. Translated 
by Rev. Edward Forster. With an Explanatory and Histo- 
rical Introduction, by G. M. Bussey. Carefully revised and cor- 
rected, with some additions, amendments, and illustrative notes, 
from the work of E. W. Lane. Illustrated with Twenty large 
Engravings from designs by De Moraine, and numerous smaller 
Wood Cuts. In three volumes. 

Contents, 



INTRODUCTION. 

THE SULTAN OF THE INDIES, THE 8UL- 
TANES3 SHEHRAZADE AND HER SIS- 
TER DINARZADB. 

THE OX, THE ASS, AND THE LABORER. 

THE MERCHANT AND THE GENIE. 

THE FIRST OLD MAN AND THE GAZELLE. 

THE SECOND OLD MAN AND THE TWO 
BLACK DOGS. 

THE THIRD OLD MAN AND THE MULE. 

THE FISHERMAN AND THE GENIE. 

THE GREEK KING AND DOCBAN THE 
PHYSICIAN. 

THE HUSBAND AND THE PARROT. 

THE VIZIER WHO WAS PUNISHED. 

THE YOUNG KING OF THE BLACK ISLES. 

GANEM, THE SLAVE OP LOVE. 



THE ENCHANTED HORSE. 

THE PORTER, AND THE THEEB LADIES 

OF BAGDAD. 
THE FIRST ROYAL CALENDER. 
THE SECOND ROYAL CALENDER. 
THE ENVIOUS MAN AND THE ENVIBD. 
THE THIRD ROYAL CALENDER. 
STORY OP ZOBEIDE. 
STORY OF AMINA. 
NOUREDDIN AND ENIS ELJELIS, THB 

BEAUTIFUL PERSLA.N. 
THE THREE APPLES. 
THE LADY WHO WAS MURDERED. 
NOUREDDIN AND HIS SON, AND SHEM- 

SEDDIN AND HIS DAUGHTER; BED- 

REDDIN HASSAN AND THB ftUBBM 

OF BEAUTY. 



THE LITTLE HUMPBACK. 

THE CHRISTIAN MERCHANT'S STORY. 

STORY OF THE SULTAN's PURVEYOR. 

STORY OF THE JEWISH PHYSICIAN. 

STORY TOLD BY THB TAILOR. 

STORY OF THE BARBER. 

THE BARBERS FIRST BROTHER. 

THE barber's SECOND BROTHER. 

THE barber's THIRD BROTHER. 

THE barber's fourth BROTHER. 



THE BARBER'S FIFTH BROTHER. 
THE barber's SIXTH BROTHER. 
CAMARALZAMAN AND BADOURA. 
PRINCE AM6IAD AND PRINCE ASSAD. 
THE SEVEN VOYAGES OF SINDBAD THB 

SAILOR. 
PRINCE AHMED AND THE FAIRY PABI- 

BANOU. 
AEOU HASSAN, THE WAG. 
ALI COGIA, THE MERCHANT OF BAGDAD. 



ALI EBN BECAR AND 3HEMSELNIHAR. 
ALADDIN, OR THB WONDERFUL LAMP. 
ADVENTURES OF HAROUN ALRASHID. 
BAEA ABDALLAH. 
SIDI NOUMAN. 
COGIA HASSAN ALHABBAL. 
PRINCESS GULNARB OF THE SEA. 
KING BEDER BASIM AND THB PRINCESS 
GIOHARA. 



ALI BAEA AND THE FORTY ROBBERS. 

PRINCE ZEYN ALASNAM AND THB KINO 
OF THE GENU. 

PRINCE CODADAD AND HIS BB0THEE8. 

THE PRINCESS OF DERYABAB. 

THE THREE SISTERS. 

PRINCESS PERIZADB AND HBB BRO- 
THERS. 

CONCLUSION. 



" A beautiful American reprint of a book which furnishes, perhaps, as much of the 
' stuff that dreams are made of,' as any other that we could mention. This has long 
been needed and wished for, and the book produced is just what was wanted. Paper 
and print unexceptionable ; illustrations graceful and suggestive, and price extreme- 
ly moderate; nothing mars the pleasure of possessing a work without which not 
only no library, but no youthful imagination, can be considered thoroughly fur- 
nished." — Union Mag. 

" The republication of these fascinating stories, in so good and cheap a form, wUl 
be very acceptable to the community. No good American edition, to our knowledge, 
has as yet been published, and it has been difficult to find it, except in the very ex- 
pensive illustrated French or English editions " — Boston Daily Adv. 



PUBLISHED BY C. S. FRANCIS AND CO., NEW-YORK. 

THE ARABIAN NIGHTS' ENTERTAINMENTS ; 

OR, THE THOUSAND AND ONE NIGHTS. Anew Edition, 
carefully revised and corrected ; with an Explanatory and Histo- 
rical Introduction ; and many additions, amendments, and illus- 
trative Notes. Illustrated with numerous Engravings. 3 vols. 

" The b€st edition of this most popular of ' story books ' ever published in this 
country." — Tribune. 

" Lord Byron, to the end of his days, declared that no dish was so palatable to 
him as the homely one of bacon and greens — and why? because he had eaten of it in 
his youth, and the days of his youth came back with the savory gusto of the food 
that had pleased his fresh and eager taste. If the Arabian Nights had no other 
claim, we might set up a similar one for this new edition of so old a friend ; but the 
delight with which new readers seize upon the fascinating tissue, is no whitless than 
that which enchains a circle of Arabs as they sit round their fire in the desert, for- 
getting the toils and hardships of the day in the splendid creations of Oriental 
fancy. Stories of Genii and Afrites, enchanted horses, and women whose beauty 
causes the beholder to faint away, are as easy to believe as ever, and possess a power 
over the imagination which will last as long as human nature. The present edition 
is of the translation of Rev. Edward Forster. with various notes and amendments 
from Lane and others, and an explanatory and historical introduction, in which are 
embodied many curious and interesting particulars. We ought further to mention, 
that the good taste of the translator and editors, has prompted them to alter certain 
passages which, without adding to the value of the work in any one's estimation, 
were considered as blemishes by the refined reader of the present day. The work is 
elegantly done, and we doubt not will prove highly acceptable, as supplying a want 
long felt here." — Inquirer. 

" This is a most beautiful edition of a work, which has given perhaps as much 
pleasure, as any" that ever was penned We shall never forget the joy, 
mingled with wonder, with which we pored over its pages in our boyhood; and 
though S'^me persons object to such reading for children, we do not, because we are 
not conscious of ever havirg received the least injury from it ourselves. We are 
fearful that the proscription of such works, and the substitution of those of a more 
practical character for young people, would be somewhat injurious to the finer and 
more imaginative portion of the mind. A blending of the two classes seems to us 
better than a prohibition of either. The present edition is admirably adapted for 
young eyes, the type being large and clear, and the text illustrated by ulutes." — Sat. 
Post. 

"A convenient and handsome edition of this most popular specimen of romantic 
fiction has long been a desideratum. There are very expensive English illustrated 
'Arabian XightS;' and very cheap, badly printed American oties; but any between 
the two, combining economy with elegance, were not obtainable until the present 
issue. Ihe publishers have met a decided want, and in a very iudicious style. It is 
a translation by Rev. Edward Forster; there is a valuable explanatory and histo- 
rical introduction, by G. iM. Bussey — the whole revised, and additions, and illustra- 
tive notes, adopted from Lane's excellent work The volumes are euibeJiished with 
twenty large engravings, from designs by De Moraine, and many small wood cuts. 
It is very neatly printed, and sold at the low rate of three shillings a part." — Home 
Journal. 

" Messrs. Francis & Co. have commenced the republication of this famous 
story-book, which can hardly fail to secure as general favor at the present day, as 
former editions have met with from former generations. In addition to the attrac- 
tion of the bo)k its If— and who that has once read the ' delightful stories,' which the 
Princess .•^hehrazade 'so well knew,' but retains most agreeable reminiscences of 
them — there is, in the present edition, an elaborate explanatory and historical in- 
troduction, together with numerous illustrations, both large and small, which add 
not a little to the etfect of the story. For Young America — that portion at least 
which is so far free from the influence of modern ' progress ' as to take delight in 
what delighted their fathers and grandfathers before them — no publication of the 
present day will have greater charms than this new edition of the v/orld-famoua 
Arabian Nights' Entertainments." — N. Y. Gazette. 



'PUBLISHED BY C. S. FRANCIS AND CO., NEW-YORK. 

THE BOOK OF ENTERTAINMENT,— OF CU- 

RIOSITIES AND WONDERS IN NATURE, ART AND MIND ; 
Drawn from the most authentic sources, and carefully revised. 

Forming a thick volume of nearly one thousand pages. Illustra- 
ted by more than one hundred Engravings. 



A PORTION OF THE CONTENTS 



Part I. — Thebes, its origin and rise, 
extent and internal arrangement, hun- 
dred gates; its splendor, decline and 
ruin, &c. Manners and Customs of the 
Irish peasantry. Abstinence. Affec- 
tion. Agricultural operations. Useful 
Arts described. History of the Battle 
of Cressy; of China and its customs; 
of the Falls of Niagara; French Gyp- 
sies ; Hindoo Pilgrims ; Leaning Tower 
of Saragossa; Lion of Africa; Beaver 
Hat mamifacture ; Usefulness of Birds ; 
Causes of the Earth's fertility; Crops, 
their preservation, &c Experimental 
Science; Feats of strength, Fortitude 
of Women; City of Mexico, its great 
temple, idolatry of the people, magnifi- 
cence of the King, besieged by the Span- 
iards, mode of writing. &c. Voyage on 
the Mississippi. New-Castle Coal 
Trade. &c., &;c. 

Part II. — An account of the City of 
YenicC; giving a history of its origin, 
rise, greatness, and decline, with a des- 
cription of the interior of the city, and 
the most remarkable public and private 
buildings. Excursion in Arabia. Ca- 
thedrals of Auxere and of Kirkwall. 
Cordova, in S|>ain. Elejihants, and the 
manner of catching them. Blackbirds. 



Errors and superstitions. Coroboree 
Dance. Gizzard in birds. History and 
description of Kirkwall. Man over- 
board. Mines of Great Britain. Mer- 
maid. Voice in man and animal. Pas- 
senger Pigeon of America. Acc/)unt of 
oysters, muscles, and cockles. Greek 
islands. Useful arts — the ox and cow ; 
milk and butter; making cheese. Ac- 
count of the sheep, goat, and hog. Wan- 
derings in the American forests, &c., &c. 

Part ///—Account of Madrid; its 
capture by Napoleon, situation, and 
form. Palaces and Churohes. Prado, 
and streets, &c. The Main-Truck, or 
leap for life. Lady Harriet Ackland, 
and her sufferings. Animals used as 
food. Eugene Aram. Aromatic Vine- 
gar. Savings Banks. History of Bees. 
Chinese duck-boats. Method of pre- 
paring Coffee, Chocolate, &c. City of 
Cologne. Different Dispositions. Re- 
marks on Cooking. Egyptian mode of 
hatching eggs. Female Excellence : a 
tale of real life. Moscow, and its 
Churches. Mode of preserving Insects. 
Account of the Coast of Ireland. Rat- 
isbon. St. Robert's Chapel and Cave. 
Cathedral of Winchester; of Durham; 
Colchester, &c. &c. 



AMONG THE ENGRAVINGS ARE THE FOLLOWING 



City of Muscat. 
Western Steamer. 
Breaking Stone on a Man's 

Chest. 
African Lion. 
Manufacture of a Hat. 
Eltham Palace 
Norris Castle. 
Agricultural Instruments. 
Rocking Stone. 
Mississippi Overflowing. 
Gypsies. 

Mexican Paintings. 
Russian Travelling. 
Hieroglyphics, 
Windmill. 
Plains of Cressy, 
Ruins of Karnac 
Bridge of Sighs. 



Roman Coins. 

Shells. 

Launceston Castle. 

Mowing. 

Reaping. 

Inclined Plane. 

Mushrooms. 

Churns. 

Cheese-Press. 

Sir Francis Bacon. 

Stones of Stenis. 

Stornaway. 

Stromness. 

Catching Elephants. 

The Ceylon Elephant. 

Views of New South 

Wales, 
Mermaids. 
Women of Scio. 



Wild Pigeons. 

Snowdon. 

Fairhead. 

Ducal Palace, Venice, 

Colonnade, Venice. 

Palace of the EscuriaL 

Coffee Tree. 

Dropping WelL 

Water Clocks. 

Snake Charmers. 

James Crichton. 

Pearl Fishery. 

Pahice at Madrid. 

Church of St. Basil, Mod* 

cow. 
Natives of New South 

Wales. 
Rocks of Ragherry. 

&c., &c., &c. 



" Made up from all sources, describing whatever is most wonderful and worthy 
of admiration in the world, it cannot fail to prove highly attractive, especially to 
the young, for whom, of course, it was mainly intended, though all persona will find 
in it much matter of decided interest."— JoMrnaZ. 



PUBLISHED BY C. S. FRANCIS AND CO., NEW-YORK. 



THE BOOK OF ENTERTAINMENT,— OF CU- 

RIOSITIES AND WONDERS IN NATURE, ART AND MIND. 
Drawn from the most authentic sources, and carefully revised. 

Seconir Series* 

Another volume, of nearly a thousand pages, illustrated by more 
than one hundred engravings. 

A PORTION OF THE CONTENTS. 



Part /.— Natural and Ci-dl History of 
Ceylon; the Natives; Boodhism; Trial by 
Jury,&c. Sugar maple. Coverings of An- 
imals. History of the Arch. Arabia and 
Mocha. Attar of Roses. Fall of Baby- 
lon. Instinct of Birds. The Hermit of 
Switzerland. Cathedrals of Caen and 
Saragossa. Colombo in Ceylon. Debt 
and iVIisery. Division of Labor. Con- 
vent at Saragossa. Female Fortitude. 
Festival of the Bairam. Mode of meas- 
uring heights. Manufacture of Pottery. 
Manners and Customs of the Turks. 
Mexico, account of the modem city, its 
streets, churches, police, population, &c. 
Hotbeds, Hothouses, Conservatories, &c. 
Woman, the solace of man. Robert 
Eaikes. Poisonous Plants, &c. 

Part II — Cemeteries and Bfurial in 
Turkey. Information concerning Barley, 
Bread,' Vermicelli, Brewing, Charcoal 
Coal and Coal Blines. Anger and Mad- 
ness. Account of Benares, Basle, High- 
lands and Islands of Scotland, Owhyhee, 
and its Volcano, Liege, Londonderry and 
its famous Siege, Luxor and its Ruins, 
Malvern Hills. Thebes and its Ruins, 
Karnak and its Temples, Society Isl- 
ands, .4cc. Anecdotes and Tales of Bona- 
parte, Addison, Burke, Bishop Hall, J en- 



ner, Irving, Johnson, Lavater, Locke, 
Mungo Park, Wilberforce, &c. Old Cas- 
tles, viz: Dunvegan, Ennandowan, 
Shirbourn, &c. Dialogue between a 
Clergyman and Deist. Druidical Re- 
mains. Old Cathedrals, Ely, St. David's, 
&c. Clock at Rouen. Druidical Crom- 
lechs. Wild Beasts, Rhinoceros, Ele- 
phant, Lemming, &c. G3T)sies. History 
of Writing. Natives of Swan River. 
Skating Soldiers of Norway. &c. &c. 

Part 777.— Accotmt of the City of 
Brussels, its history, situation, and cli- 
mate, streets, squares, parks, palaces, 
public buildings, manufactures, &c., with 
a description of the Battle of Waterloo. 
Agriculture and Gardening in Japan. 
Allahabad in India. Description of Do- 
mesticated Birds; the common fowl; 
the Turkey and Guinea Hen ; the Goose 
and Duck; the Pigeon. Early Rising. 
Deaths of eminent persons Forest Trees. 
Greek Islands, Chios, or Scio. Harvest 
in Nassau. Hog Hunting in the East 
Indies. Culture and Manufacture ol 
Indigo. Instances of insect sagacity. 
Experiments concerning Jugglers. Stu- 
dy of Material Nature. Self-taught 
Mathematician. Great Square in the 
City of Munich. &c. &c. &c. 



AMONG THE ENGRAVINGS ARE THE FOLLOWING \ 



Church of N. S. de Gua- 
dalupe, Mexico. 

View of Moe:ha. 

Natives of Ceylon. 

View of Colombo, Ceylon, 

Measuring Heights and 
Distances. 

Different Cider Mills. 

Potters at Work. 

Festival of the Bairam. 

Street in Rouen. 

Harbor of Havre. 

Turkish Fuaerah 

Etruscan Vases. 

Charcoal Burning. 

Skating Soldiers of Nor- 
way. 

Ruins of the jVIemnonium. 

The Lemming 

Colossal Statues at Thebes. 



The Druid Stone. 
Dunvegan Castle. 
Orders of Architecture. 
Bridge of Saragossa. 
City of Mexico. 
Cathedral in Mexico. 
Mexican Water Carrier. 
Pulque Plant. 
Coining Press. 
Shawl Goat. 
Indian Corn. 
Fort at Allahabad, E. I. 
Hop Picking. 
Nimbus, from Teniers. 
Abbey of St. Stephen. 
Volcanoes in Owhyhee. 
Shirbourn Castle. 
Ruins at St. David's. 
Ennandowan Cattle. 



Colonnade at Luxor. 
Rhinoceros and Elephants. 
Egyptian Vases. 
Domestic Fowls. 
Hog Hunting. 
Place-Royale, Brussels. 
Botanic Garden, Brussels 
Indigo Works in S. Amer. 
Diamond Cut. and Polish. 
Carlisle Castle. 
Town Hall at Bolougne. 
Barnacles. 
Crystals of Snow. 
The Sumach. 
Crossbows and Arrows. 
Night Scene in N. S. W. 
Dunluce Castle. 
Throwing the Lasso. 
Modifications of Clouds. 
&c. &c. &c. 



Ruins at Medeenet-Habou. 
" The contents of this very thick volume, which contains a great amount of read- 
ing, are both instructive and entertaining. It is admirably adapted to improve the 
mind, and to give the readers, especially the young, s, taste for useful information, 
and an inducement vo the further pursuit of praetieal knowledge." 



c/ 



PUBLISHED BY C. S. FRANCIS AND CO., NEW-YORK. 



THE WORKS OF MRS. HEMANS. A complete/ '^ 

and unifonn edition, with a Memoir by her Sister. In 7 vols, f-^ 
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Each volume may he had as a separate and complete booh, / ''' 

price 62^ cents, viz : 
1.— MEMOIR OF MRS. HEMANS. By her Sister. 
II.— TALES AND HISTORIC SCENES, &o. 
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IV.— THE FOREST SANCTUARY ; DE CHATILLON, &c. 

v.— RECORDS OF WOMAN; VESPERS OF PALERMO, &c. 
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THE BOOK OF ENTERTAINMENT —OF Cu- 
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Drawn from the most authentic sources. Carefully revised, and 
illustrated by more than one hundred Engravings. One thick ' 
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" A handsome volume, containing a fund of information pleasant to the 
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SAILOR'S LIFE AND SAILORS' YARNS. By 

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Containing — A Sailor's Life — Nathan Smith, the man that was laughed at — 
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Missing Vessels — Sailors' Pvigbts and Sailors' Wrongs. 

A PICTURE OF NEW-YORK; With a Short 

Account (>f Places in its Vicinity. Designed as a Guide to citi- 
zens and Strangers. With 36 Engravings of the principal public 
buildings, and a Map of the city. 

THE FAIRY GIFT. A choice collection of Fairy 

Tales. By Chakles Pekrault, Madame D'Aulnoy, M. 
Fenelon. and others. Illustrated by 200 Engravings, fi'om de- 
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IV. Blanche and Vermilion. V. Prince Desire and Princess Mignonetta 
VI. Toads and Diamonds. VU. The Beneficent Frog. VHl. Graciosa and 
Percinet. IX. Princess Maia. X. The White Cat. XL Babiola. XH 
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THE FAIRY GEM. A companion to the above. 

By the same authors. Similarly illustrated. 75 cents. 
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